I'm on an afternoon escape break from a two weeks spent at my grandparent's house. (The escape was to internet and not from them, for the record.) I've had fun "pondering" on Gallagher, my faithful computer, while at the g'rents so this will probably be the first of several installments on this, my trusty, blog... :O)
No one ever confuses me with the princess, sissy girl types. Not even on accident. I’m a sturdy-looking girl that lives in jeans and t-shirts. My hair is always thrown up into a messy pony. My make-up is simple. I am just now developing an understanding in my relationship with the color pink. I love to be barefoot and I’m always up for a modest adventure. I am not afraid of hard work. I rake. I mow lawns. I scrape paint. I haul dirt. I am decent at first aid (perhaps because my sturdy look is deceptive and masks “accident prone”) and I’m not afraid of or put off by blood (mine or anyone else’s). I get my hands dirty. I hold my own.
I don’t know if when I sat down to write, I was prepared for the self disclosure which may, in fact, follow, but I my as well start by being honest...
I don’t “do” poop.
This may seem like a minor piece of self disclosure, but I hate admitting it. It ruins my image. Sissy girls run away from poop. Anika doesn’t run.
But I hate it. Absolutely despise poop. The thought of it makes me gag. (This whole vignette is making me queasy, actually...)
Don’t get me wrong, I first and foremost deal with what I have to. I’ve babysat a dozen kids while they were in diapers and I have changed my fair share. But I’m relatively certain they got changed because the idea of sitting with a poopy butt is grosser than wiping one. And if I ever came into a situation where a pile of sissy girls (and boys for that matter) were standing in a circle not dealing with some poop, I would probably scold and step up because that’s what I do. [Not to mention safe-guarding my image for another day.] But I would be cringing on the inside.
So today (what is now several days ago), when my grandpa told me we were going to take some loads of manure down to the hoop house to get ready to mix dirt, I was mentally gearing myself up for such a task. I am not a city girl, I know about manure. Manure is poop. Got it. I can handle it. Grandpa is impressed by the things I take on and if I hesitated, I would never live it down. And we headed to the aviary. Bird poop. My sour stomach churned...
I watched as Grandpa took his trowel and began chunking out some of the nesting squares. I waited for my assignment. I fetched Grandpa a stool and returned as he, with his bare hands, was dusting out the space. Perhaps TMI, (yay self disclosure!), but I started my period today. I am always nauseous, to a fault, for the first three days of Mother Nature’s special blessing. And today just happened to be poop day besides. Awesome. I felt the bile slide up my throat as I gagged and then forced myself to get a grip. I secretly and silently prayed “please have Grandpa tell me to do something that requires the shovel!” at which point he turned around on his stool and said, “how about you do this and then I’ll get started on some of the other pieces.” The insufficient trowel was mine. I swallowed hard, thought about the fact Grandma was working on lunch and tried not to lose my morning coffee, as I proceeded to trowel out 10 gallons of bird poop from nesting squares over the next hour.
At some point in the middle of this, I realized I was disgusted, but not disgruntled. I smirked as I heard the birds chirping happily overhead and my grandpa talk to and razz them. I sarcastically (although not bitterly) half laughed to myself as I tuned in to the mocking songs, “You would get a kick out of me doing this! Crazy birds!” For whatever the reason, the next thing to enter my mind was the beginning of one my life verses: Romans 5:3-5. “Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings...”
I was glad my grandfather was a full 30 feet away and hard of hearing, because I began to laugh out loud. I put a trowel full of manure in the bucket and chuckled under my breath “pretty sure this was not what Paul was talking about in terms of suffering!”
But it made me think about the “crap” in life. Real suffering. The suffering of Christ. A suffering I would like to think I have tasted in part and participated in as the result of living in this falling and breaking world...and know that it is but a nibble in comparison to others, let alone Paul who first penned the words. A suffering which, if we are honest, for as much as our floofy American lifestyle affords, we all know too well. Crap. Life’s crap. Suffering. My mind continued to recite the verse. “Because we know suffering produces...”
I stopped. Suffering produces? Crap grows? Tomorrow, all the manure I hate so much, all of that caked gray bird poop I tried not to gag with as we moved it into the hoop house, will get mixed with fresh muck (a rich, dark dirt) so that my grandpa can begin creating potting soil. Potting soil, even the kind you buy at the store, is a nutrient-rich fertilizer and dirt combination (with some Styrofoam and peat moss, I learned). There is a reason that people buy potting soil and don’t simply try to plant their flower and houseplants in some dirt from under the tree in the backyard. That dusty tree dirt isn’t good enough. It’s missing the substance that sustains.
The fact of the matter remains...
Crap produces.
I am getting a tattoo on my foot within the next couple of months that pretty much sums up the journey God has taken in me on in this thing called life. It will read “Protest to Praise” with a Psalm 30:11 reference. I want it to stand as a testament to the fact I am a work in progress. That for all the times I’ve begged God to show up, He’s already been there. That He stands in midst of my storms, that He carries, He sustains, He heals. “Protest to Praise” (the title of one of my favorite songs) encompasses my story. Part of me thinks that if such is my reasoning in getting inked, I need a second tattoo on my other foot. The two can match. “Protest to Praise” on the one foot with a mirror image on the other reading “Crap Produces”. Yep, pretty much sums that one up...
The fact of the matter remains, whether you are a “no blood, no guts, no vomit, no pee, no poop” sissy or not, I dare say none of us are actually rip-roaring ready to go when it comes to “life crap”, when it comes to suffering. I think we look at the task at hand, the shoveling of manure in our days, and take it on (some of us better than others – some, quite frankly, not well at all) and try not to lose our lunch as the bucket continues to fill. And yet, I, and many of us, can probably attest to the times in our life that we’ve shoveled the most manure also being the times in our life where we’ve seen the most growth. Where Romans 5 gets worked out and we stand somewhere on the other end (perhaps having not even quite left) and see that our suffering has produced things like perseverance, character, hope which doesn’t disappoint...and a richer relationship with the One who sustains and pours love into our hearts and lives.
May I remember, despite my disdain for poop...both in and of life...to never forget that crap produces. Which is reason enough for joy...
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