Thoughts From the Pastor--March 2013
Spring has got to be my all time least favorite time of the year. Yeah, I know. The poking through of tulips. The greening of the grass. The robins back in the yard (if the robins were so great wouldn’t we hear about the sorrow of them leaving in the fall?) The freshness in the air. Yadda, yadda, yadda.
Spring is filled with more dreary skies. Or all the mucky yard stuff that you’re not supposed to rake up because you could damage the yard because it is too soft. Those precious birds decide the best place for a nest is on the porch light fixture or in hanging flower basket that you’ve carefully grown in the house. (Cardinals are so much smarter than robins. Never has a cardinal taken residence on my porch light.) Potholes. Sump pumps. And my least favorite-mud.
Mud. I confess to some childhood trauma about mud. The entire school playground was a yard. In spring, the whole yard was a mud pit with varying elevations so that you could navigate the higher ground and the soupy sloughs. Those were the days when you wore rubbers on your feet. I had the over-the-shoe-buckle-up-the-middle-rubbers. I was out in playground playing some tag or something and the bell (it was more like a buzzer, but I digress) sounded.
Spring meant the need to budget even more time to get back into the building, wrestle with your boots and get back in your desk. Haste is important because everyone is getting their boots off- so everyone runs to the door at the buzzer. Everyone, except me. I couldn’t run- not because that I wasn’t athletic enough (I was quite brawny even as a first grader.) I couldn’t run because I was literally stuck in the mud.
Did you know that a brawny kid running can make quite an indentation in the mud? The mud enveloped both of my boots up to my ankles. One buckle was immersed and I was sinking. I looked to the door of my school now closing. All the kids had passed me by. What was I to do?
There would be hell to pay if I was tardy. There would be hell to pay if I tried to lift my foot out of my boot and leave stocking-footed to cross the muddy morass. Crying would just increase the mud quotient.
The playground teacher was helping all my classmates ditch their boots and put them on shelves. I stepped out of my boots- leaving them behind and walked through the mud hoping not to lose my socks too.
I was a mess. A mess. The playground teacher wouldn’t even let me in the room. Everything was mud. My mom came what seemed like an hour later (we lived six blocks away.) She was not happy. Stripped of everything except my tighty-whities she put me in the car and once home- the bath. I have never fully recovered.
We all get into messes. Some messes are bigger than others- but messes just the same. My way of dealing with the mud was to step out on my own because I believed I would get into trouble if I was late, sink because I stood, or face humiliation because I was a big boy standing in the mud. What I needed was someone to save me. What I tried was doing something on my own.
Eventually someone would have noticed my absence. It may even have been that one of my classmates was trying to get the attention of the teacher to let her know I was stuck. But what I really needed was a savior- someone to lift me out of the mud and put me on solid ground.
Friends, when you’re stuck in the mud, talk to your Savior first. He has a long history of rescuing people from the muddy messes. Sure, you’re still likely to have some mud on you- but trust how the Savior is at work. When the Son comes it dries up the muck. The Son always prevails.
God’s Peace- Pastor Randy