Mud

For about a week now, maybe longer, I have been awake in the night, staring at the ceiling, wondering how things will ever work out. Feeling alone, forgotten, and mostly guilty for not being a better friend, a better Christian, a better person. Trying to pray, but too exhausted to cut through the heavy darkness around me. Overwhelmed by all that I should do, ought to do, need to do to make things right.

My mom told me yesterday that this is where faith comes in. I told her -honestly and authentically- "I know that's true, but honestly, that's a really trite answer." You can say things like that to your mom with the general expectation that she will still love you.

When my brother and I were the size of Mattie and Vin, my parents built their house. My dad dreamed of a pond in his back-yard and since the builder already had the heavy equipment there, he dug one. The spot they picked was spring fed, and several small streams flowed in and out it...which basically resulted in the pond sinking back in on itself, with gooey sucky mud, which was about the consistency of peanut butter, around it. It was like this for a long time before it became the very large and persistent puddle it is today.

One day we went out to play and mom told us, "Don't go near the pond." So of course, we went straight there with only the smallest of detours to guise our real destination. Moments later, my little rubber farm boots were sucked down into the gooey glue and I couldn't even take a step. I was sinking. My older brother, with dramatic TV visions of quicksand in his head, flew down to the house screaming for help. By the time Mom came to fish me out, my boots were goners. They are still there in the dirt I expect, these 25 years later. A spanking and a bath later, I was a wiser and cleaner little person.

The mud is around my ankles again. I need someone to fish me out. I'll gladly leave my boots behind and take whatever whacks I deserve so I can get on with life.