Rodent Redaction

I seem to be having a rodent problem. 

Example #1: Several months ago, while cleaning a bedroom where a guest had just slept, I lifted the knit blanket from the chair in the corner and I jumped. Stuck to the bottom of the blanket, seemingly sleeping serenely, was a petrified baby squirrel. Yes, I was appropriately mortified. And no, I don’t know how it got there or why I didn’t smell its putrid, decaying frame until I picked up the throw. Evidence below:

Example #2: I had decided to clean my screened porch because spring weather had arrived. I was hoping to sit on the patio furniture and drink my coffee on the upcoming cool mornings. Again, this incident involves a blanket. And again, I was lifting the blanket off the couch when I screamed and started. Under the red, tapestry-like throw, I found a mouse scurrying away with five babies attached to her bottom. Either she was birthing them or nursing them. Judging by the size of all the babies, I decided they were nursing. She was a slow scurry-er with the attached babies, so I got to view her actions for several minutes. In her panic, a few babies detached from her bottom and were laying in the corner of the couch. She tried to grab one of them in her mouth and found another hiding place for them under a pillow. By this time, I was freaking out and had no idea how to move this little family without mouses climbing up my arms. I ran to get the kitchen broom, pushed the pillow away with the broom, and was finally able to prod her onto the floor and out the porch door. In her surprised haste, she dropped several of her babies on her way down the stairs. I gathered up the dropped furless babies carefully in a dustpan and put them on the grass below the stairs. They were making pitiful squeaking sounds. Then I went back into my porch and found the perfectly round hole in one of the screens where mama mouse had chewed through so she could nest in a blanket that lay upon my patio furniture. I didn’t have time to fix the hole in the screen, but I placed a mouse trap just below it on the windowsill and yelled down to mama mouse, “I saved you and your babies but now you must stay out of my porch.” Apparently, mama mouse did not understand English and apparently, she thought some of her babies were still on my couch because she made her way through the hole, stepped onto the mousetrap, and got caught by her head. RIP mm. See very fuzzy screen shots from video as evidence below:

Also, I am not a bad housekeeper.

                       

Example #3: As I was drinking coffee on my now rodent-free porch this morning, I glanced out the screen door and saw this:

This was not a pleasant sight first thing in the morning, especially with my recent rodent problems. I wasn’t sure who had pooped on my porch stairs, but I knew whoever it was had been eating lots and lots of seeds. I proceeded to finish my coffee, then go to the garage and gather up a trowel. I used the trowel to scoop the poop and plop it onto the grass below. As I walked outdoors, I noticed that the pooper had also visited the nearby swing set and decided to leave a seedy deposit on the lofted playhouse. No one wants a poopy playhouse, so I also removed the poop via trowel and threw it out into the yard. After I had performed all this stinky seedy scat removal, I googled “dark brown seedy rodent poop” and discovered that a raccoon was the most likely culprit. I also discovered that raccoon poop is VERY TOXIC because it often contains Baylisascaris worms and, according to the CDC, I was supposed to be VERY CAREFUL when removing it. These are the directions listed for clean-up. I have placed a check mark after the ones I followed:

• Wear disposable gloves.

• Wear a N95-rated respirator. 

• Avoid stirring up dust and debris.

• Wear rubber boots that can be scrubbed or cover your shoes with disposable booties that can be thrown away.

• Feces and material contaminated with raccoon feces should be removed and burned, buried, or sent to a landfill.

• Treat feces-soiled decks, patios, and other surfaces with boiling water or a propane torch. ✔                

I read these precautions AFTER I, gloveless, maskless, and bootless, had quickly discarded the poop. I did not burn, bury, or send the poop to a landfill. I threw the poop in the yard where my dog and my grandchildren play. 

Reading further, I learned “Raccoon droppings are dangerous because many contain tiny roundworm eggs that can infect humans and cause serious illness if accidentally swallowed or inhaled. Although these infections are rare, they can lead to irreversible brain, heart, and sometimes eye damage and death.” Because I am a worst-case scenario kind of person, I was certain that I had inadvertently ingested Baylisascaris larvae and that I would die within the month. Wanting to spare my husband (who would mow over the poop and also ingest the larvae), I quickly went inside (and after spitting a lot and gargling with salt water to kill any worms in my mouth), put the kettle to boil and proceeded to pour boiling water on the scattered poop pieces and upon any stairway surface the poop had touched. I chose the boiling water method because I did not desire to burn up my house, yard, or swing set. After pouring all the water out on the feces pieces, I boiled another pot and poured it on the poop spot on the swing set loft. Then I carefully looked in the river rock under the loft because I was sure that my granddaughter would play in those pebbles, pick up the poop, eat it, and become disabled for life. And it would be my--and the absent raccoons--fault. So, excuse me now as I contemplate my recent rogue rodents and the uncertain fate of myself, my husband, my current and future grandchildren. 

Finally, as with all experiences, I have gained a few droppings of insight, so I will leave you with some solid advice: Check your blankets carefully before you entertain guests, use wisdom when choosing to assist a mother mouse, and never ever invite a raccoon to share your bathroom. 

You Do You?

This is a repost from a few years ago. Someone said this ubiquitous phrase to me the other day and I remembered that I had written about somewhere. That somewhere was on my very own blog. Check it out: 

My children, who are now grown and think I am old and peculiar will often respond to my strange habits or proclivities with “you do you.”  I used to think this was funny, and actually kind of empowering, since I do think and act differently than your average millennial.  But, as I mulled it over in my old, peculiar brain, I decided that “you do you” was pretty bad advice theologically. 

If I followed the mantra of “you do you,” I would eat only tortilla chips and salted (not ‘lightly salted’) almonds and Breyer’s Cookies and Cream Ice Cream.  And I would drink only ice water (with good ice) and extra hot hazelnut coffee from Panera (with plenty of half and half), with an occasional Diet Coke fountain drink thrown in (not into the coffee of course) for good measure (again, good ice).  I would lie in my hammock for days on end and read stacks of books and sleep.  I would rarely leave my house unless I ran out of the above-mentioned foods.  And I would wake up in the morning around 9:30am and wear a hat every day because I would never fix my hair. I would use parenthesis liberally.

If I followed the mantra of “you do you,” I would take every opportunity to tell you why you are wrong, and I am right.  I would complain incessantly about anything and everything.  I would criticize the way you thought and dressed and spoke.  And if those words that you spoke hurt me, I would not forgive you.

If I followed the mantra of “you do you,” I would believe that I was too bad to enter God’s presence; that I was too small to gain his attention; that I was too far gone to deserve his forgiveness. 

And I would be right.

Because if I followed the mantra of “you do you,” I wouldn’t be able to restrain my tendencies to hurt and to hate.  I wouldn’t be capable of forgiveness and flourishing.  I wouldn’t be fit to come close to God.

So, I have decided instead to live by “you do Jesus,” since the whole “you do you” just isn’t gonna cut it. 

If I live by the mantra, “you do Jesus,” I can retrain my brain and restrain my body to make it healthy and holy. 

If I live by the mantra, “you do Jesus,” I can measure my words and monitor my mouth and renew my mind.

If I live by the mantra, “you do Jesus,” I can not only forgive the ones I hold captive, I, myself, can be forgiven!  I can become fit because he was forsaken; lifted up because he brought himself low!  I can give him my rags of shame and gain his robe of splendor! 

If I live by the mantra “you do Jesus,” I can come close to God!

So, really, you don’t want me to do me. 

The me you see now is Jesus in me, slowly (oh, so slowly), but ever so surely working out my salvation for his glory.  I am learning to walk in his ways (clumsily, imperfectly, even sometimes disobediently), and he is making me into the Tori he intended before the world began.

I am learning to rest in his love. 

Next time you hear “you do you,” don’t let it fool you.  And don’t let it make you a fool.

Don’t “you do you.”  Hide yourself in Jesus instead.

Since, then, you have been raised with Christ, set your hearts on things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things. For you died, and your life is now hidden with Christ in God. When Christ, who is your life, appears, then you also will appear with him in glory.

Colossians 3:1-4

Why We Shouldn’t Teach Children that Jesus is Their Best Friend

 

A few days ago, I was in a meeting in which we were discussing creative ways to present Bible truths to children.  As we were each presenting our methods of telling the week’s Bible story to the kids, one of my fellow teachers said, “I just tell them that Jesus is their best friend.” I was very uncomfortable with this statement.  Let me explain…

Good Sentiment. Bad Theology

A W Tozer famously writes, “What comes into our minds when we think about God is the most important thing about us.” If we believe this to be true, then we must be very careful to present the God of the Bible with utmost care and accuracy.  If we don’t teach our children to view God correctly from their very earliest years, their impressions of their Creator will be unbalanced at best... or heretical at worst. As parents and teachers, we need to take God’s reputation very seriously.    

In A Class of His Own

Yes, I want my son to feel loved and valued by God, but I don’t want God to be fully accessible to his small mind.  When my child thinks about God, I don’t want him to see the magnificence of God enveloped in a disheveled, skinned knee, gap-toothed buddy. God is wholly other--sui generis--unique, peculiar, in a class of his own--he is not limited to an elementary classroom.  When my child thinks of God, I want him to be awed by the wonder that this amazing being, whom he can’t fully understand, chose to come to earth and be bound in skin. He chose to live as a child who did skin his knees and lose his teeth but in a way that they never will--perfectly.  This perfect child grew to be a perfect man who became a perfect sacrifice. His amazing grace towards us should stir in us a mighty reverence for him.  

The Lion of Judah

Rather than tame what Revelation 5 calls The Lion of Judah by introducing him to our kids as a cuddly, snuggly pet, let’s approach his throne with Christ-earned confidence and fall on our knees in worship.  

Someday, maybe in the not-so-distant future, every knee will bow, and every tongue will confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.  So, let’s give our kids a solid foundation--and accurate theology--by looking on our great and glorious God with hearts full of joy and appropriate trepidation.  

In the words of Mrs. Beaver from the Chronicles of Narnia, “Course he isn’t safe.  But he’s good.”

Mother, behold your son. Son, behold your mother--a Good Friday Meditation

Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother, his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to her, “Woman, here is your son,” and to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” From that time on, this disciple took her into his home.  John 19:25-27

What was it like?  To see your firstborn on a cross? Making plans for your care with the last of his breath?  30 years ago, I had a baby boy, my firstborn.  Instantly, I loved him.  Did Mary feel that too?  What was she feeling as her son, just a little older than mine is now, died a horrific death as she watched, helpless? Reflecting on this passage, I put myself in her spot; I see the Lord Jesus as if he were my child. My baby. My heart.

I Carried You. I remember the night the angel told me I would carry the Son of God.  I was confused, scared... but satisfied.  What the angel said would happen.  I carried you in my womb and felt your kicks in my belly.  My body gave you life.

O God, my son, my precious one, hangs there naked, moaning. Do you hear him?  Are you carrying him now?

I Saw You Breathe. When you arrived on that starlit night, you took your first breath and let out a cry. Many nights after that, I would go in quietly just to see you breathe--your little chest rising and falling.  Then I would silently creep out, comforted by your abundant life.

O Lord, He is crying! His chest heaves as his life, my life, creeps out of him. Will he really breathe again?

I Held Your Hand. As a toddler, you would reach for me, chubby hands would hold my face.  I basked in your soft tenderness. After you played, I washed the dust out of the creases of those velvet hands. Oh that I might hold those bleeding hands now; that my kiss would make all well.

When they pierced his hands, Holy Father, the hammer resounded as if in victory. This is your son too, Lord. Why could it not be me?  

Your Hands Heal My Soul. But, it is with those same hands, now broken, that MY SOUL is tenderly healed.  My son, whose hands I held, bears the wrath of God for ME!.  It’s YOUR blood that washes away the dusty creases of my sin.

"My God, My God, why have you forsaken your Son? His suffering, his separation -- will bring salvation? But this way... this pain?"

Your Breath Gives Me Life. It is your body that breathes its last so that I will never die.  The warm breath I felt on my cheek now makes my chest rise and fall. When you silently creep out of this world, I gain abundant life. 

God, is this the sorrow you spoke of at first?  The sorrow I couldn’t see through the joy?  Please remind me that this is not the end.  He lived a life of perfection for you so he could die a death of ransom for me.

You Will Carry Me Home. It is You who carries me now.  What the angel said would happen.  When you were small I carried you, snuggled up close to my heart. Now I kick and cry but I cling to the hope of Shalom; I am confused and scared...but satisfied.  Your body gives me life.

I long to see you Lord, to join my son in forever. He will rise again, my Savior!  Bring shalom to greet us Lord; bring heaven to this broken place and peace to my broken heart. 

 

Make all things new!

Make all things new!

Make all things new!