Poop happens

A few days ago, I wasn’t watching where I was going and stepped in dog poop. I felt the warm mush ooze under my bare foot and, without looking, immediately knew what I had done, even before the smell reached my nostrils. Standing on my other foot, I yelled in utter disgust for my husband to come rescue me. He quickly arrived and removed the majority of the mess off my foot, and I proceeded to the bathroom for a good foot washing.

The unpleasant incident pushed my Recall button: I was 5 years old and my mother had just dressed me up real pretty in a new blouse and skirt she had recently sewn. We were going on a family outing, and I went outside to wait for our departure. As I waited, a little neighbor girl stopped by, just to hang out. We played for a short while, then, all of a sudden and with no warning, my friend picked up a stick, dipped it in nearby dog poop and smeared it down the front of my nice new white blouse. Shocked, hurt and angry, I ran into our house, crying. As my mother consoled me, she washed my face, pulled the dirty shirt off and replaced it with a clean one. She then undertook the unpleasant task of contacting the girl’s parents to inform them of what their little, jealous “angel” had done. As for me, it didn’t take long to recover from the trauma, and I went on to face many other unpleasant experiences common to young girls.

In mulling over these two incidents in my mind—one past, the other present—I thought, “There must be a spiritual application here.” And, sure enough, as I am apt to do, I came up with one.

As we walk through life in this downfallen, sinful world, we occasionally step in crud, because we don’t pay attention to where we are going, or we sin. Other times, we are just standing around minding our own business and, unexpectedly, someone picks up a stick and smears the “poop” of our culture all over us. How do we get rid of the crap and stench? Run crying to Jesus, who washes us clean, removes the filthy rags, replaces them with new ones and heals our spirits. Renewed, we get back in the game of life, until next time.

“Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean; wash me, and I will be whiter than snow” (Psalm 51:7, NIV).

Copyright © 2010

Squirrel wisdom

One of the activities we enjoy at our summer home is watching the squirrels that live on our property. They have feelings. They exhibit joy—they love chasing each other up and down trees—and they get angry. Ever been scolded by a squirrel? I have. They also experience grief.

Several years ago, my husband and I were going to a theatrical production with friends. As our group approached the theater, we observed a squirrel that was very upset, clearly in panic mode. We quickly saw the cause of his concern. A vehicle had struck his companion, who now lay, deceased, in the middle of the street. Chirping hysterically, distraught over the loss of his friend—perhaps a family member—he was inconsolable and continued to express his grief as we proceeded to our destination.

Early this week, I heard great commotion outside. Looking out our office window, I saw two squirrels having, what appeared to be, a disagreement. I don’t know what they were arguing about, but they were definitely making their opinions known. Evidently, they used an effective communication technique because, in no time, they had made peace and were back to chasing each other, having a great time.

I think marriage counselor Jimmy Evans would approve of our squirrels’ conflict-resolution skills. “We need to learn how to approach one another when we are angry,” he writes. “This is such a critical lesson for us to learn because uncontrolled or unrighteous anger can be so destructive. … Today’s anger is very manageable. Yesterday’s anger is dangerous, because it has fermented.”

Copyright © 2010

Photo by  Tim Seed

Joseph, the chicken

Each year, in early spring, my father would order baby chicks to raise, for butchering in the fall. I mentioned in a previous post that my mother was a “pioneer woman.” For example, when it came time to butcher the chickens, she would find a block of wood and pound two nails spaced just right so a chicken’s neck could be placed between them. Mom would take an axe and, one by one, chop off the chickens’ heads. She would then dip the decapitated chickens in scalding water, pluck their feathers, singe off the pin feathers, clean them inside and out, can the meat in jars, and store the jars in our cellar for use throughout the winter months.

My Dad
I learned a lot from him
about chickens AND people.

One year, when the chicks were half-grown, I entered the chicken coop and saw that a young rooster had blood covering one side of his neck. Further inspection revealed that a large area down the side of his neck was completely raw and feather-free. The poor chicken was barely alive! My dad removed the rooster from the coop, and we kept the fowl in our house while we nursed him back to health. The injury to his neck left a scar in the shape of the letter “J,” so I named him Joseph.

Joseph eventually recovered his physical health, but the “J” remained. He became a family pet and never returned to the chicken coop. He would walk up my arm to sit on my shoulder and, when my dad was cultivating the garden, Joseph would follow him and the rototiller up and down each row. That rooster was amazing!

Unfortunately, what Joseph experienced in the chicken coop is not uncommon in the chicken world. A chicken introduced to a flock may be viciously attacked by poultry with more seniority. Or, one chicken may see light glistening on the feathers of a colleague and, instinctively, peck at it. If the pecks are repeated often enough, they draw blood and other chickens will join in. Before long, the chicken being picked on will be injured, maybe even die.

I have often thought about how chicken-coop dynamics occurs in the human world—between spouses, siblings or friends. One person starts pecking on another, picking at every little flaw, real or imagined. Over time, the pecks increase in frequency and strength until blood is drawn. Often, others join in. The victim is wounded and scars remain that last a lifetime. Sometimes, the wound is so severe the person experiences emotional—even physical—death. We often hear of hen-pecked husbands, but there are also rooster-pecked wives, and parent-pecked, sibling-pecked and classmate-pecked children.

It is hard to understand why we humans adopt the ways of chickens, and I don’t want to be a participant in such hurtful behavior. Lord, help me bring healing, not wounds, and life, not death, to others.

Photo by Simon Howden

Copyright © 2010