The Many Thoughts of Wanda Kidd

The Gift of Unexpected Wisdom

Deadwood, South Dakota, circa 1990.

The summer my daughter was twelve and my son was seven, we took a trip that my children still believe would bring charges if they turned me into the Department of Social Services. We left North Carolina and traveled some of the way with students from Mars Hill (then) College. On the third day, we parted ways with the students, and I was the only driver until we could pick up my sister in Denver four days later. 

 The trip covered eight thousand miles in sixteen days and went to twenty-three states. We traveled in a rented Ford Taurus that had to have its oil changed in Las Vegas. Hertz said that had never been necessary before. Once home, I made my husband return the car to the rental company because of sheer embarrassment.  Somewhere along the way, one of our children rolled down the window to throw out their gum, but it stuck to the window and was smeared on the glass as they rolled it up. The 100-degree desert temperature baked the gum onto the glass, and we could not remove it with ordinary means.

Each day, the kids looked at a map of our plans for that day and chose one place they wanted to stop and visit. Yellowstone Park was one of the stops.  It was snowing on the fourth of July, and I was afraid we would get stranded.  Fortunately for them, Old Faithful was going off in 13 minutes, so they got to see the famous geyser.

However, my most memorable stop was the day after we stayed in Rapid City, South Dakota. The odd choice for the day was Deadwood. I want to think it was because I made them watch Doris Day in the musical film Calamity Jane so often, but truth be told, I have little idea what motivated my children then or now.

I imagine Deadwood is much more tourist-friendly today, but it was just beginning to lean into its infamous past when we arrived on that July morning in 1992.  There were one-armed bandit gambling machines in front of every store, and the history they were showcasing was not PG, so we looked around for an age-appropriate place to visit. I spotted a local museum, and fortunately, my children loved just about any museum, so we headed into the small building.  As we entered, a bell rang over the door, and the volunteer took our admission fees, and we began to wander around.

The place was filled with memorabilia collected from pioneer homesteads, and calvary clothing, and weaponry.  Toward the back of the museum was a large library display table covered with glass.  It contained various items they considered valuable enough to be exhibited in the case.  There were brass buttons, porcelain tea cups, and military metals, but the same case contained an unusual picture.   It was a hand-drawn charcoal image of Jesus on sketch paper.  The artist had placed a crown of thorns on His head, with something red dabbed on the image, depicting blood running down his forehead. The picture had His head bowed, and His eyes closed.  It was framed in an inexpensive 8X10 metal frame, and tucked in the corner of the right lower corner of the frame was a piece of yellowed onion skin paper with typed directions that said, “Look at this, and the eyes will open.” 

My twelve-year-old daughter and I stood side-by-side and looked at the framed depiction.  As we walked away, I threw my arm around her shoulders and, jadedly, said, “ I did not see Jesus’ eyes open, did you?”

Because she was the same height as me at that point, she looked me straight on and said without malice or sarcasm, “Well, maybe it wasn’t His eyes that were supposed to open.” As we walked to the car, I acknowledged my gratitude for her wisdom and insight and the implications of both. As Jolting as it was and still is, I am grateful to be reminded that someone else’s eyes are not the only ones who could be closed to possibilities.