By the Skin of My Teeth

by Donna Poole

The patient sits next to me working on his physical therapy exercises.

“I just might get this blog written and posted this week by the skin of my teeth,” I say to John.

He answers with a groan. Even the heavy-duty medications can’t erase the pain of his exercises today.

“Now it’s time to get back on your CPM machine.” (Controlled passive motion machine)

My kind, loving, normally cheerful Valentine glares at me. “I just got off it.”

“You still have four hours to go.”

People warned us that total knee replacement surgery wasn’t easy. John’s surgery was Monday; he came home Thursday, and he had his first home physical therapy session yesterday. He’s hurting today. But he’s glad to be home, and I’m happy he’s here. He’s home for Valentine’s Day, home by the skin of his teeth.

John had a painful, weak day near the end of his hospital stay. When it took three nurses to get him adjusted on his CPM machine, we both wondered if he should consider inpatient rehab. It wasn’t our first choice, but we weren’t sure he could handle coming home. We prayed about it, and John told me to call our local rehab center to see if they had room for him.

“I’m sorry; we don’t. We’re only taking Covid patients this week.”

We were relieved, and John felt like he’d escaped going to rehab by the skin of his teeth.

“By the skin of my teeth.”

Isn’t language fascinating? I love exploring the history of old sayings. “By the skin of my teeth” means “I managed it but only by a narrow margin.” People use the ancient phrase to express an escape or an achievement that barely happened. It’s a distance too small to measure.

The Geneva Bible of 1559 was the first to use the expression in Job 19:20 “I haue escaped with the skinne of my tethe.”

I avoided being fired once by the skin of my teeth. I sold flight insurance at the Broome County Airport in Binghamton, New York. Joy, my boss, flew in occasionally from New York City. I always heard her coming by the brisk click click of her high heels on the terminal’s tile. She was tall and lovely with perfect make up, and she made me want to throw up. Not because she was so perfect, but because I knew she was going to yell at me.

In training I learned the tricks of selling flight insurance, how to subtly play on the fear of first-time flyers, how to appeal to a senior citizen’s love of a grandchild, how to “sell up.” Our policies cost from twenty-five cents to five-hundred dollars, but Joy warned us to never sell a twenty-five-cent policy.

“What if someone asks what our cheapest policy is?” another trainee asked.

Joy said, “Start out selling high. Come down to twenty-five dollars only if you must. If a customer asks for the cheapest say, “Well, we also have ones for ten and five dollars. I will fire anyone who sells a twenty-five-cent insurance policy!”

Day after day I sold twenty-five-cent policies. Many of them. When someone asked for our cheapest, I sold our cheapest.

“Joy is going to be furious,” the long-time employees warned me.

And Joy was furious. Every time she came, she hollered at me and warned me it better never happen again, but she didn’t fire me. She often threatened to. She demanded my reasons. I explained my ethics. She looked puzzled and shook her head.

“I think you have potential to be one of my top salespeople. Try to sell a lifetime five-hundred-dollar policy before I come back. It doesn’t matter if the person will never fly again. I’ll feel good about you selling it.”

I shook my head. I wouldn’t do it, and she knew it. She sighed. “I’m going to have to fire you one of these days, Donna Piarulli. You know that don’t you?”

I loved every job I ever had except that one. I was so relieved to give my notice when John and I were going to get married and move out of state.

On my last day, Joy gave me a wedding shower. The decorations were beautiful, the food delicious, and the cake amazing. I was overwhelmed by the generous gifts, especially the lavish ones from Joy.

Joy had to leave the shower early to catch her flight to New York City. I walked her to her gate and thanked her. She bent down and hugged me.

“You do know, Donna Piarulli, that I would have had to fire you eventually, don’t you?”

“I know.”

Then we looked at each other and laughed. Joy flew off to New York City and I never saw her again. I ended up on a dirt road in Michigan happy not to be a big city boss who only escaped by the skin of her teeth having to fire someone she really liked.

 We knew a man who only made heaven by the skin of his teeth. He was dying in the hospital, and his family asked John to go see him. John asked him if he’d ever repented of his sin and accepted God’s gift of salvation.

“Jesus died on the cross to take the punishment we deserve for sin,” John explained. “We just need to believe He died in our place and accept His gift of eternal life.”

The man replied, “I did that when I was a kid.”

John looked troubled when he told me about it. “He was lying, honey; I know it.”

John was preaching Sunday when the man’s son-in-law burst into the auditorium. “Can you come quick, Pastor? Dad’s dying and asking for you.”

A deacon finished the service and John raced to the hospital. The man could barely talk. He managed only two words, his last. “I lied.”

“You lied when you told me you had asked Jesus to save you from sin and give you eternal life?”

The man nodded, looking terrified and miserable.

“Squeeze my hand if you are praying this with me. Dear Father, I know I’m a sinner and I’m sorry. I don’t deserve heaven.”

The man gripped John’s hand.

“I believe Jesus took my punishment for sin when He died on the cross. I accept what He did in my place. I thank You for the gift of eternal life.”

The man squeezed John’s hand again. John looked at his peaceful, smiling face. “Do you know where you’re going when you die?”

The man nodded and squeezed John’s hand one last time. He died peacefully a few hours later and opened his eyes in heaven. He made it by the skin of his teeth.