As a child I was blessed with a mother who couldn't discipline and a father who didn't need to.  Her rod of authority was born of the ancient ritual saying that ended with "because I said so."  He always used the Bible, with a quote for every occasion, referenced neatly so I could read it myself.

Shortly after my sixteenth birthday I requested my mother's permission to pierce my ears.  She replied with the famous phrase, "Go ask your dad."  I mustered my courage and gathered a most convincing argument for permanent ear decoration and approached my father with faltering confidence.  His permission would set precedence against long-standing non-ear-piercing tradition, stalwart against time for generations in my extremely conservative family.

"Daddy," I sweetly fluttered my eyes and smiled hopefully, "may I please get my ears pierced?"

"Well," his left hand reached for his three-version reference study Bible with concordance. With his right he grabbed a kitchen chair.  I sat down, a little bit nervous.  My eyes blinked more than they fluttered.  My smile was less sweet, and my voice shook.

"God instructed the Israelites to celebrate a Sabbath Year . . ."  Daddy flipped the pages to an obscure passage in Leviticus.  After reading  it, he explained in great detail the Israeli traditions concerning people who preferred to remain slaves beyond the "Year of Jubilee."  I did not relish the idea of standing against a door with a hammer and rusty nail aimed at me.  After all, what sixteen-year-old girl wants a gaping hole glaring out from under her fabulous hairdo?

Long after I turned eighteen I remembered, and shunned the slavemaster's hammer.  After all, my daddy advised me against it, and never had to raise his voice.  Who can argue with the chapters of Leviticus?

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