God Drives a Tow Truck (19 page)

We had had a wonderful day, and I thought about how God can use
anything
for His purpose. It was not to the most talented people, or the largest nation, or the richest group that God sent the Hope of Mankind to be born. It was to a small, impoverished, unimpressive people; through a frightened, teenage girl in a tiny unremarkable town that Jesus entered the world. In the end, it really is not who we
are
, that matters. It is who the Director believes we can
become
.

“
Show me a sign of your favor” Psalm 6:17

Philippians 4:7
And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

I tried to navigate my way around three seven foot trees and a giant python in my living room. I had almost made it to my bedroom, but the giant five foot banana now blocked my final path. The team of creative kids I managed for Destination Imagination, were busily hot gluing their fingers to fabric, and their friend's feet to my once shiny wood floor. The dogs were eating discarded pieces of PVC and wire. Another group was cutting thick cardboard, and had broken a second pair of once fine and useful scissors. Small pieces of white plastic drop cloth were scattered like snowflakes about the room. Bins overflowing with fabric, foam, Styrofoam pieces, PVC, and other tools of the creative spirit were toppled in the sunroom, spewing their contents like artistic vomit across my once uncluttered domain.
As I surveyed the mess, I felt an uncharitable thought. I hate clutter. I hate noise. I love peace and stillness. I like mountains that fade into the distance, not a soul in sight, endless miles of quiet. Why was I doing this?
Just then I remembered the recent visit of a troubled young man. A friend of one of our children, he told us God's voice had urged him to come see us.
"I always loved coming here when I was a child," he said, "It was a second family for me and you always were kind. It meant a lot to me when I needed it."
Honestly, all I remembered of him and my son was shooing them out of the way. I had vague memories of their disappearing to fly rockets that crashed, or foraging for food and then huddling again around board games in the blessedly pre-computer mania days. I didn't recall being much of a source of support or "second family" to this kid.
However, in those tumultuous days of becoming an adult, he sought us out, with memories of kindness and love. This gave me pause as I squelched the desire to torch the giant trees, and the giant python, and especially the giant banana gracing my once immaculate (well...less cluttered) home. Who knows what point of refuge we might unknowingly be providing? Who could predict what memory of unfettered creativity and laughter might be a beacon in a dark and lonely path in the future?

I often wonder if my opening my home to so much disarray at the hands of children is worth all the trouble. It seems God isn’t very interested in giving me a preview of what kind of impact, if any, this may have. When I want to throw them all out and retreat to my neat and quiet silent corner, I try to remember that troubled friend of Matt.
With a sigh, I wove my way into the kitchen and asked if the smell of burning was emanating from any structural part of my house.
"No," they cheerfully responded, “Just human flesh!"

Better human flesh than human souls, I thought.

Chapter Twenty Nine

Complete Control

Phillipians 3: 20-21

²⁰
But our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ,
²¹
who, by the power that enables him to bring everything under his control, will transform our lowly bodies so that they will be like his glorious body.

Many things can derail a relationship. Some are more poisonous than others- lust, greed, selfishness to name a few. In our marriage one of the most ongoing potent traps is the issue of driving. I am a very nervous passenger. I do not like anyone other than myself driving. Everyone else drives too fast, too recklessly, too casually. The only person I have ever been able to contentedly let pilot the wheel was a hot air balloonist who conducted safety seminars. When Tom drove, he did so with an incredible courtesy to his passengers. He never raced up to stop lights and then screeched to a halt. He never threw passengers against the door careening around curves. He never speeded. He never zig-zagged in traffic to gain thirty seconds and slam to a halt at the stop sign in front of whatever car had been in the lead. My mother, another nervous passenger concurred. No one put us more at ease in a car than Tom.

However, my driving expectations were not identical to my husband’s, and thus we were forever locking horns; stag beetles tossing each other about with conflicting needs. I tried to squelch the more obvious expressions of utter dismay. Instead of shrieking when we approached a red light at the speed of a meteor hurtling to earth, I would clutch the ceiling and lean back so that when the air bag detonated upon impact, my liver and spleen would not be perforated. When we hurtled around a curve, with water bottle and purse becoming projectile missiles, I swept my arms in a practiced arc, snatching them before they impaled any loved ones. At times, I would silently pray but sometimes was unable to squelch small gasps, or very quiet shrieks.

If there was rain, I was sure we would hydroplane. And
heaven forbid
we should ever drive in the rare snowfall in Charlotte. That put us in definite danger of divorce court. I found that if I buried my head and hid in the back seat with several blankets over me, I could endure being a passenger in a car driven on snowy roads.

Thus, there was always some stress when we went on vacation, because inevitably, the man drove. I would prefer to drive, but some primal code established long ago seemed to ordain that men drive, and women suffer through it. So I settled into my seat as we headed off to our annual beach vacation, and tried not to scream audibly.

This particular day, we had left a little later than we had wanted and my beloved was driving even less to my liking than usual. Unable to contain my despair any longer, I did what every wife knows they should never do. I requested, perhaps not as kindly as I should have, that he slow down.

The stress of packing, leaving later than we planned, and long work hours the previous month, did not lend itself to him responding as sweetly as he could have, either. In frustrated anger, he shouted, “You do not need to tell me how to drive. I AM IN COMPLETE CONTROL!”

At that
very
moment, there was an enormous explosion, and the car swerved wildly. Arvo wrestled with the wheel, and we all sucked in our breath and braced. He admirably wrenched the car safely to the shoulder and slowed to a stop. I did not say a word. Arvo got out of the car and looked at the tires. One was completely flat.

Long ago, the king of Babylon, King Nebuchadnezzar walked out and surveyed his palace and grounds, and with great self exaltation proclaimed, “Is this not the great Babylon I have built as the royal residence by my mighty power and for the glory of my majesty?” (Daniel 4:30) I love what happens next. The Bible tells us:

The words were still on his lips when a voice came from heaven, “This is what is decreed for you, King Nebuchadnezzar: Your royal authority has been taken from you. You will be driven away from people and will live with the wild animals; you will eat grass like cattle.”
(Daniel 4.31-32.)

Humbly, Arvo got back in the car and admitted, “I guess I am
not
in complete control,” as he called our Motor Club to summon a tow truck.

Chapter Thirty

Squirrel Nutkin

Exodus 33:19

I will have mercy on whom I will have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I will have compassion.

In the early spring, just as the weather was thinking of changing from frigid to less frigid, it was a rainy night. Lucky, our crazy terrier, was as usual cowering somewhere in the rain. The wind blew fiercely. I was snuggled on the couch sipping tea, and Asherel was in the sunroom artistically crafting something out of duct tape, a favorite medium of hers. Suddenly, she called to me, "Mom, come here."
"What is it?" I asked lazily, cozy with my tea and book.
"Lucky is licking a dead animal," she called.
I sprang up, and raced to the sunroom. Peering out at the rain sparkled deck, I flicked on the porch light. Lucky was drenched and shivering, and he was indeed licking a dead rat.
"Oh GROSS!!!" I cried, and opened the door shrieking, “Lucky! Drop it!”
Lucky, ever quick to obey, picked up the dead rat in his teeth, very gently and brought it to me, where he laid it at my feet, and began licking it again. In a shivering spasm, it suddenly squirmed.
"Oh Lord," I groaned, “It isn't dead yet."
Close to tears, I got a shovel, and a box, and shoveled the hairless wet rat into the box, with the intent of dumping it in the garbage, since it would certainly be dead soon. I assumed Lucky had been eating it. As I looked a little more closely, I didn't see any injuries or blood, however. It squirmed again. My stomach churned, and I carried the box to the side yard, outside the fence where Lucky couldn't reach it. My tender spot for all creatures would not allow me to dump it in the garbage can. I lay the box on its side so it would keep out the rain, and hurried back inside. At least it would die in relative comfort.
The evening was very cold, and very rainy. In the morning, I went outside, to throw the certainly frozen, dead rat away. As I knelt to pick up the box, the rat moved, and began to suckle. I realized, as I looked more closely that not only was it clearly not dead, it was not a rat. It was a baby, drenched squirrel. In despair, I brought it inside. It was very early morning and no one else was awake. Lucky greeted me with interest wagging his tail, as if to say, "I was trying to tell you last night it was just a baby.”
I held it to his nose, and he licked it again. The baby squirmed. I got the furriest little towel I could find and began to rub the tiny cold body. I realized that the hairless effect was just drenched baby hair. As I toweled him off, he became fluffy and cute. He occasionally suckled, but was lethargic and feeble. I wrapped him in the soft towel and heated some milk. With an eyedropper, I squeezed a little milk into his mouth. It dribbled out both his mouth and his nose. All his suckling and weak squirming ceased. Alas, he must have died at that very moment! My heart went out to the tiny creature, which had fought for his life so nobly all night in the cold and rain, only to die just as help arrived. Teary, I was laying him down in the box, when he exploded with a sudden, violent sneeze, spurting milk all over my hand. He reached out spasmodically with his front paws to grasp my finger. I squirted a tiny bit more of the warm milk into him, and he grabbed the dropper and held on, sucking like a vacuum cleaner. It was tricky helping him suckle without getting it up his tiny nose, but after a few squirts, he seemed satisfied and nestled into my hands in the little cocoon of warm towel.