But another group of people rallied yesterday. You see, the National Day of Prayer shares the calendar spot with the National Day of Reason. A statement on the website for NDoR says, “On May 3, humanists and other freethinkers will be opposing National Day of Prayer by celebrating reason!” I had to read that quote a couple of times to let its message sink in.

My overwhelming response, as I thought about those words was, “Why can’t we celebrate both?” After all, God isn’t opposed to reason. He created our minds, He created the way we think, and He is the source of all wisdom. He encourages us to use every available resource, to weigh all the information, and to be reasonable.

How can we celebrate reason by opposing the Creator of reason?

God urges us in Isaiah 1:18, “Come, let us reason together.” Many times in His word, He urges us to seek Him, to study Him, and to weigh all the evidence. Reason things out, friends, and I believe you’ll come to the same conclusion that many thousands of others have come to. It is reasonable to have faith in God.

“But you have no proof,” you may say.

Actually, yes, I do. In any court of law, if enough trustworthy people testify to the reality of something, it is concluded to be true. It may not remove all doubt, but enough testimony serves to remove reasonable doubt. I am far from perfect, but ask anyone who knows me. I’m pretty trustworthy. I know God is real because I’ve seen Him work in my life. I know He is real because I’ve felt His presence when I thought I had no one. I know He is real because I talk to Him every single day, and He talks back. And I’m just one of many who will tell you the same thing.

But don’t take my word for it. And don’t take anyone else’s word, for that matter. God is big enough for your questions, your arguments, your denials. Trust me—I’ve been there. He welcomes your honest, reasonable inquiries. Ask Him to show Himself to you, and keep looking for the truth. I’m not saying He’ll come to you in a lightning bolt. But He tells us in Jeremiah 29:13 that we’ll find Him when we seek Him with all our hearts.

But I digress. My purpose in writing this article is not to oppose your right to celebrate reason, or your right to reject a life of faith. My purpose in this article is not to oppose anything. Instead, I’d like to embrace and celebrate reason along with you. By all means, let’s study and research and learn and use every available piece of knowledge to make wise choices. Amen to that.

If you don’t mind, though, I’ll add one thing to my celebration. While I’m doing all those things we just mentioned, I’m also going to seek wisdom from the Source of all wisdom. I’ve tried making decisions without Him, and I’ve tried it with Him. I can say from experience, He’s never steered me wrong.

“If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask of God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you,” James 1:5.

The cuteness was short-lived. Especially at 2 a.m. when Jacobi, or “Brown Dog” as we affectionately call him, decided to cry and howl until somebody paid him some attention. Every night.

Every. Single. Night.

I Googled everything I could think of to learn how to shut him up. Finally, I landed on a dog obedience school near us that ran a special puppy program. The puppy could go and stay with them for ten days, and they would teach him all sorts of important things a puppy needs to know. Things like how to submit, how to be handled without getting nervous, and how to act in public.

I’m not sure if I sent Jacobi to puppy school so he’d learn those things or so I could have a ten-day break. A little of both, I guess. But sure enough, ten days later, Jacobi came back to us a new puppy.

Sort of.

During his stay at puppy camp, Jacobi learned many good things. But what I forgot to mention is that during his stay at puppy camp, his family (that would be us) was supposed to read and study The Puppy Manual, which taught us how to be good puppy owners.

There was a lot of stuff in there.

Stuff like how to keep your dog on a schedule. Stuff like the importance of exercise, both mental and physical. The book had suggestions for special toys and games to make your puppy smarter.

One of the lessons we learned in The Puppy Manual was the importance of keeping your puppy tethered to you, as often as possible. During the puppy stage, if you keep the dog on a leash at your feet, he will learn that you are the master. And he will learn the value of staying close to the master.

When Jacobi is close, I can sense when he’s about to do something naughty and redirect his behavior. I can’t do this if he’s wandering free in the house. And when he stays close to me, he gains a better understanding of my love and care for him. He doesn’t feel anxious or afraid, because he knows I’ll protect him and see to his needs.

Funny. I’ve noticed that when I stay close to my Master, I don’t mess up as much. I don’t get distracted with naughty behaviors as often, because He redirects me. But when I wander away from Him, I often find myself in all sorts of trouble. I do things I know I shouldn’t, things I’ll later regret, simply because I’m not in a place where I can easily hear my Master’s voice.

When I stay close to Him, I gain a better understanding of His love and care for me. I know He’ll protect me. I know He’ll supply all my needs.

Sometimes my attention is diverted, though, and I wander away from Him. But the great thing is, He always comes looking for me. During those times, if I listen closely, I’ll hear Him calling my name. And if I run to Him, He’ll always welcome me back with open arms.

“But as for me, it is good to be near God. I have made the Sovereign LORD my refuge . . .” Psalm 73:28.

Last weekend we all went skating. It took me a few minutes to get my skate legs, and then I was off. It was like no time had passed since my junior-high cool-kid-with-pom-poms-on-her-skates days. I zoomed around kids less than half my age and pretended not to notice as their jaws hit the floor at the site of the old lady who could get her groove on wheels.

When Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” broke out, I was tempted to bust a monster move, but I refrained because I was afraid I might bust something else. Besides, I didn’t want to be held responsible for the years of counseling my children would surely have to endure in order to get past the humiliation.

As I skated around the oval time and again, wind whipping through my hair, I remembered what it felt like to be young and carefree. What a great feeling! I wish I could go back to the point in life where I lost that feeling, so I could find it again.

Unfortunately, life happens. We grow up. We have jobs to do, bills to pay, people to take care of. And somewhere along the way, we forget that life is supposed to have some fun thrown in. At that point, we might as well just throw the towel in, for it’s all downhill from there.

But life doesn’t have to be a downhill journey. In the midst of responsibilities and illnesses and bills and all that other not-so-fun grown-up stuff, we need to make time to laugh. To have fun. To be kids again.  After all, didn’t Jesus tell us He came so we could have abundant life? Didn’t he tell us He wanted our joy to be full?

Though we can’t turn back the clock, we don’t have to get old. Oh, our bodies will age. But in light of eternity, our spirits are still just babes. There’s no reason we can’t laugh and have fun and enjoy life, even if our skates don’t roll quite as fast as they once did.

And even if we are on a downhill journey, what’s so bad about that? Ask any kid. The downhill parts are the most fun parts of the ride.

“The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly,” John 10:10.

Well, I’m ashamed to say I was a little too quick to judge her eccentricities. I thought I’d never fit into the “crazy cat lady” category, and so I could secretly laugh at her gazillion cats.

I was wrong.

Oh, I’m not the cat lady. Cats don’t like me much, and that’s okay with me. But somehow, I’ve become . . . drum roll please . . . the crazy dog lady. I say crazy, because that’s what anyone would have to be to take on the number of dogs that are currently living at my house.

We already had two dogs. Now, I love my dogs, but two dogs was already one too many. But Shamgar was our family dog. When darling daughter turned nine, she wanted her very own puppy, so we got her Annie. Now darling son is ten, and he wanted his own dog. Every boy needs a dog, right?

So after many months of begging and pleading and bargaining (from my husband, not my son) I finally agreed. Last Saturday, Jacobi came to live at our house. Now, Shamgar is a Lhasa Apso, and Annie is a Shih Tzu.  Tiny dogs.

Jacobi is a breathtakingly beautiful Chocolate Lab. He has chocolate brown fur and clear green eyes. Stunning, I tell you. And at seven weeks, he weighs over twenty pounds.

His paws are the size of small hamburgers.

Oi, vey.

But it gets even better. You see, my dear mother-in-law had knee surgery this week. And guess who has been elected to dog-sit her two puppies for the next several weeks?

Yep. Me.

So I currently have five dogs living at my house.

Yes, I know. I’m crazy.

But in my own defense, I’m not quite the same as the crazy cat lady. She actually wanted all those cats. I, on the other hand, am trying to figure out a way to get rid of some of these dogs. So far, I haven’t been successful.

Don’t get me wrong. The dogs are sweet. Each one, alone, would make a wonderful pet. But two of the dogs require various medications, at different intervals during the day. They’re high maintenance. Not to mention the big horse-dog who loves to chew and, in a couple more weeks, will probably be the size of a small dinosaur.

I decided I could keep them all in their kennels at night and in the back yard during the day. But when I do that, they stink. Really bad. And if I leave them out at night, they’ll just cry and whine and keep the neighbors up.

I wonder if God ever feels about us the way I feel about those dad-gum, smelly dogs. I mean, really. We humans are high maintenance. We get ourselves into all kinds of mischief. And sometimes, we’re downright smelly.

I think I know the answer to that. He doesn’t feel that way about us at all. Instead, He’s more like my cat friend. He loves us. He wants us around. And He delights in taking care of us.

I guess  I can learn a lesson from the cat lady.

But I’d sure like to learn it one dog at a time.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest,” Matthew 11:28.

Oh, it wasn’t the kids. They were wonderful. Brilliant. Helpful, even. No, it was the Austin roads. And even more than the Austin roads, it was Helga.

You do know Helga, don’t you? She’s the woman who lives inside the free GPS my daughter uploaded to my i-phone at the first sign of trouble. I didn’t know which 83 I was supposed to take. There are four of them, you know: 83N, 83S, 83A and 83B. The North and South I could handle. The A and B threw me off a bit, since I didn’t learn those coordinates in school.

Along comes Helga, to save the day. Oh, she seemed very polite at first, and I had high hopes. “May I use your current location?” she asked. Of course you may, dear Helga.

But her charm was short-lived. Before I knew it, she was barking orders to turn right, turn left, make a U-turn . . . only she didn’t tell me to turn on actual streets. I swear, she was making up nonexistent street names to confuse me.

Every once in a while, she’d throw in a real street name, just to keep me on my toes. But she wouldn’t call the real street name until I was about 40 feet past the intersection bearing that name.

Finally, I’d had enough. I realized that, in spite of her polished British accent, Helga didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. I pulled the car to a safe location, looked up the phone number for the ice rink, and called for directions.

“Can you tell me your exact location?” the woman asked. I told her. With a few simple directions, I felt a new hope that an ice rink was in our future. With a new confidence, I backed out of my parking space to begin again.

But as soon as I pulled onto the street, there was Helga’s now-annoying British voice! “Turn left. Turn right. Redirecting.”

At this point, I was a near-crazy woman. “Make her stop! How do you turn her off?” I hollered at no one in particular. Thank the good Lord above, there were teenagers in the car who promptly deleted Helga from my phone into oblivion. She’s now wandering cyberspace, looking for a new home. If she knocks at your door, don’t let her in, no matter how innocent and charming she sounds. She’s a dangerous woman, I tell you.

By following the instructions given by the ice rink employee, I found the place quickly and easily. Turns out, I wasn’t far from my destination. I just needed to listen to the right person.

That’s happened to me more times than I can count. Oh, not because of Helga, though I would like to blame her for all sorts of iniquity. But that wouldn’t be fair. There are many voices trying to lead us in the wrong direction. They sound charming and authoritative, but really, all they do is get us lost, and we end up more confused than ever.

In this road trip called life, we need to ignore the Helga’s of this world. Delete them, if possible, and listen to the One who knows the course better than anyone. By listening to the right voice, and following His instructions, we’ll end up at the best possible destination. Plus, the journey will be a much more pleasant one.

“In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct your paths,” Proverbs 3:6.

You insidious unpaired defiant wretches

Unaccustomed to the other

Patterns in heated dispute

Yet emerging as if wed

Once each of you were holy partnered

Right and left together properly bedded

Now here you lie

Too unlike the other to become one

Destined to spend unnumbered days

Cast into the catchall grave

Until another purpose unfolds

Hoping for a miraculous reunion

When the lost again is found

 ©2003 by Linda Rondeau

Hi Friends! Sorry I haven’t stopped by in a while. But I just couldn’t resist posting this sock poem by fellow author Linda Rondeau.

Obviously, this is a woman who understands the angst of laundry. Good to know we’re not the only ones, eh? But she’s not just a poet. No, sir. She’s got a new book out, and I wanted to share it with you. If you’re a fan of mystery/suspense, you won’t want to miss it.  Watch the book trailer here!

The Other Side of Darkness by Linda Wood Rondeau

Haven: a perfect vacation spot filled with mystery and romance except for a killer bent on revenge.

 Manhattan prosecutor Samantha Knowlton is stranded in a quirky but intriguing Adirondack town. But she must return to NYC to repair the unraveling case against convicted child killer, Harlan Styles.

Teacher Zack Bordeaux fears he is doomed to a life of mediocrity if he remains in Haven but would be willing to stay if it means a life with Sam.

Landscape artist Jonathan Gladstone feels bound to an estate he both loathes and loves, haunted by the deaths of his wife and son until he falls in love with a spirited attorney and rediscovers his artistic passion.

These three, betrayed and betraying, must find their way from the darkness of broken hope to the light found only in Christ, our surest haven.

 Enjoy. Blessings to each of you!

–Renae

Why I insisted on sitting on the high-traffic steps, I’ll never know. It was a hassle, for sure. But it was also the best spot in the house. After all, I got tickled or teased or squeezed by everyone who passed that way, and I kind of liked the attention.

Thanksgiving is about remembering. It’s about remembering the people who’ve touched our lives, and made them better. It’s about remembering things that made us laugh. Or, it’s about laughing at things which once annoyed us. Truly, Thanksgiving is about recalling the beautiful, the silly, the sweet things we often forget to remember.

This morning, I’ve taken a trip down memory lane, and it’s been a fun trip. Like cleaning out the attic, I’ve found memories in the dusty corners of my mind that I haven’t thought about in years. Like the way I squealed whenever Uncle Odell came near. He always, always pulled out his pocket knife and threatened to cut off one of my pigtails. “You’ve got two!” he’d say. “Why can’t you share one?”

Or the way Mary Frances and Kathy managed to look like movie stars while spreading the lace tablecloth over the deep freeze, turning it into a dessert table. Or the way Memaw’s eyes twinkled, even as she wiped the sweat off her brow after cooking all morning.

I remember the tiny wood-frame house that never seemed too small, even with fifty-something people spilling out of every corner. We never ate at the dining room table; there wasn’t room after all the food was set out. So we found spots in the living room, or in one of the bedrooms, or on the front porch or the back porch, or on the steps. When all those spots were filled, the uncles would pull down their tailgates and perch there to eat. Or, they’d just set their plates on the tailgate and eat standing up.

I remember Mom and Anice talking about the wonders of Mary Kay lipgloss, or catching up on which former classmates had married or had babies. I remember the way Aunt Doris sounded when she called my mom’s name. “Sue Nell? Sue Nell!” Actually, it came out more like “Sue-NAYell.”

I remember the way my dad and Jerry Paul and Marvin and Marlin and Maurice and Odell discussed hunting and trucks and football, and Shelby and Melvin chimed in, wanting to be men.

I remember taking walks down the old dirt road with Kenny and April. We were the three youngest, and I was the oldest of our set. I felt important and mature when I was with them, like I needed to take care of them. But once, when we made it all the way to the creek and watched a water moccasin slip beneath the dark waters, I left them in my dust. (Sorry, Kenny and April. Glad you got out of that alive.)

Good memories.

But I don’t have to dig back to my childhood to find things that make me smile. God is so good, He blesses me every single day. I love thinking about the way my dad teases my kids, and threatens to eat their apple pie. I love the way Mom fusses over her cornbread dressing, and declares it a failure, even though it always tastes like heaven. I love the way my kids and Shelby’s kids disappear together, and come back snickering and looking like the cat that ate the canary. I even love the way Shelby still treats me like I’m his kid sister, like I don’t have any sense, though I’ll never admit that to him. But at my age, it’s kinda nice to be thought of as “young”.

I love the way my husband shows he loves me every day by filling up my car with gas, and making special trips to the grocery store, and texting me sweet “I-love-you” messages. I love the way my kids both still like to spend one-on-one time with their mom. I love that I have so many people to love.

I could go on and on. But you get the idea—I’m blessed. And when I take a moment to really think about all the things I have to be thankful for, those memories seem to swell and multiply in my mind, and before I know it, there’s not any room for the stress, or hurt, or the unpleasant things in life. When we dwell on the beautiful things, the ugly gets pushed out and discarded. It’s a pretty cool system, if you ask me.

Thanksgiving is all about remembering the good things. And truly, my cup overflows.

“Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things,” Philippians 4:8.

1. One can survive several days on Starbucks coffee and a granola bar.
2. Spending more than two days without leaving the hospital is a great excuse to run up to the local mall and buy a new outfit. Trust me. No one will argue with you about it.
3. If you have toothpaste but no toothbrush, a finger works almost as well.
4. Starbucks coffee is the nectar of the gods.
5. If you go to the hospital cafeteria often enough, they’ll start giving you the employee discount.
6. If you’ve ever envied an infant’s ability to fall asleep, anytime, anywhere, spend four days in the ICU. After that, you really will sleep like baby.
7. See # 4.

1. No matter how tired you are, always be sweet to the nurses. They have access to coffee, pillows, blankets, and all sorts of other life-sustaining goodies.
2. They want you think I.C.U. stands for Intensive Care Unit, but that’s not really what it means. If you take a close look at those flimsy, backless hospital gowns, you’ll know it’s really code for “I-See-You.”
3.  Watching a heart/blood pressure monitor can be almost as entertaining as “Dancing With the Stars.”
4.  Don’t sit on the I.C.U. bed unless you want everyone in the room to know how much you weigh.
5.  See # 7.

It’s not any fun watching someone you love suffer, and sometimes, when we’re going through something like that, we can question God’s goodness. But God is always good, in spite of the fact that we live in a fallen, broken world that’s full of sickness and disease and crime and natural disasters and all sorts of other bad things.

Did you hear me? God is always, always good.

Period.

He showed His goodness to our family last week by surrounding us with skilled doctors and nurses who helped my dad get better. He showed His goodness by answering the prayers of many, many friends and family members on Dad’s behalf. God shows His goodness by rejoicing with us in the good times, by weeping with us in the hard times, and by never, ever leaving our sides during all the in-between times.

He demonstrates His goodness every time another person shows they care. And He works through us, every time we show kindness to others. Sometimes God moves mountains and works miracles, but most often, He makes His presence known through ordinary people like you and me, as we do what we can to share His love.

In a way, we all spend time in God’s I.C.U. every day, for His care for us really is intensive. And honestly, God’s I.C.U. isn’t really a bad place to be, at all.

“Bless the Lord, oh my soul, and forget not all His benefits: who forgives all your iniquities, who heals all your diseases,”             Psalm 103:2.

First, there was the mouse in my washing machine. Then there was the cat who found my garage quite comfortable, and decided to camp out there for several nights. While we’re more dog people than cat people, I do prefer cats to mice. So he didn’t bother me too much until he started inviting his friends. I do try to exhibit Southern hospitality when I can, but I’m not willing to host a feline block party. No, I’m not.

Then, as if the cat and mouse thing wasn’t enough to deal with, we had another visitor last week. And this time, he made it all the way to my hallway.

My daughter’s friend was spending the night, and they’d stayed up late watching a movie. Well, she stayed up late, along with my nine-year old son, while my darling daughter fell fast asleep on the sofa.

When the movie ended, this sweet friend decided to go to bed. On the way, she spotted one of my son’s toys — a rubber snake — coiled up next to the baseboard. Then the snake moved.

“Uhm, Mrs. Brumbaugh?”

“Yes, dear?”

“There’s a snake in your hallway.”

At this time, my son, who bears a strong family resemblance to Tigger, began bouncing around the room. “A snake? Where? Let me see! I wanna see a snake! Oh, wow! It’s a snake, Mom! Come look!”

During all this, my daughter remained fast asleep.

I breathed deeply, gathered all my courage, and crept to the hallway. If there’s one thing I despise more than mice, it’s s-s-snakes. My first thought was to scoop everyone up, put them in the car, and drive to my parents’ home just ten miles from here. But then the snake would have free reign of my house, and no telling where he’d end up.

Of course, these things only happen when my dear husband is out of town. If anyone is hiring within a fifty-mile radius of here, please contact me. I desperately need my husband to travel less.

Back to the snake. Sure enough, there was a beige-and-black, diamond-patterned serpent coiled up against the baseboard. Now, thank God for little blessings, like my own ignorance. All I could think was, “Red-and-yellow-kills-a-fellow.” No red. No yellow. Surely, he wasn’t poisonous.

I forgot, at that moment, that diamond-back rattlers are black and beige. And that they are common to this area.

Now, if it had just been me in the house, I’d have been on the roof. But there’s this sort of mother-super-power that shows up when one’s children are in danger. I stood tall, journeyed back to the kitchen, and grabbed a big bowl. Solid yellow.

Then, thinking again, I put it back and found a clear bowl. If I was going to capture that critter, I wanted to be able to see what he was doing.

With a fortitude that is totally uncharacteristic of this Texas girly-girl, I journeyed back to the hallway and poised the bowl. Our young guest must have sensed how nervous I was. “Do you want me to get it, Mrs. B? I don’t mind.”

Everything in me wanted to scream, “Yes! Please, dear, would you?” But then, I could just see explaining the emergency-room-visit to her mother. “Well, you see, your daughter was just trying to rescue me from the snake in our hallway.”

“No, sweetheart. I’m fine,” I lied.

I breathed once. Twice. Finally, on three, I swooped the bowl down on the snake, clamping the edges so he couldn’t get loose. Oh, dear Lord, his tail is sticking out! I clamped even harder. Now, during this whole exchange, the snake had barely moved. But now I’d made him mad. Time and again, he struck at my hand through that bowl. I wanted to scream. I wanted to melt into a pile of jello. But since I was the only adult in the household, I somehow (Thank you God!) maintained my composure.

“Bring me something heavy to put on top of this bowl,” I told the kids. First, my son brought an ax. Yes, a big ol’ heavy ax. Where did he get that? Did I even know we owned an ax? “Wrong shape, son.”

Next, he brought the big, thick family Bible that rests on a stand in our entryway. Yes, that was altogether more appropriate. Images of the serpent being crushed by the Word of God fluttered through my mind.

Unfortunately, I was too afraid to lift my hand from the bowl. “Put the Bible back and bring me the phone.”

I filed through my mental index of who I could call at nearly midnight to rescue me from a snake. I didn’t want to wake my parents. I called my brother. He owed me one, since he had the nerve to not be home when I called him about the mouse.

My sister-in-law answered. “Hello?”

“There’s a snake in my hallway. I’ve captured it, and now I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Call 9-1-1!”

Now why didn’t I think of that? I hung up, called the police, and within ten minutes a brave officer scooped the snake into a brown paper bag and carried him out my front door. I never knew if it was a rattlesnake or it’s non-poisonous twin, a bull snake. I’m telling myself it was the bull snake.

And during all of this, my daughter slept like a baby on our living room sofa. In spite of the fact that her brother woke her several times to tell her about the snake, the ax, the police officer . . . each time she brushed him off and said, “I don’t care. Leave me alone. I’m sleeping.”

Truly, when difficult things come our way, shouldn’t we react more like my daughter? After all, she knew as long as Mom was there, she didn’t have anything to worry about. Shouldn’t I remember that my Father is always near, and He promised to take care of me? Shouldn’t I carry the calm assurance that I can rest easy, knowing He has everything under control?

Yes, I should. But honestly, I wish He’d keep His little critters under control at some place other than my house.

“So the Lord God spoke to the serpent. . . I will put hatred between you and the woman. Your children and her children will be enemies. Her son will crush your head. And you will crush his heel,” Genesis 3:14 – 15.

I was standing in the laundry room, removing  wet clothes from the washing machine and putting them in the dryer when a predator made his presence known, and I screamed so loud I could have wakened the dead. There, in the midst of my nice, clean, wet laundry, was a mouse!

How did he get there? And how did he survive the laundry cycle without drowning? Dad-blamed high efficiency machine. He probably felt like he was getting a nice shower.

I slammed the lid down and looked through the window on top. There he was, happy as could be, nestled up in my unmentionables. What to do, what to do . . .

I called my husband, who was out of town. “Just leave him alone. I’ll be home tonight,” he said.

Leave him there for eight hours? Yeah. Right.

I called my dad. He wasn’t feeling well, so instead of screaming in panic, I calmly asked, “How do you suggest I get a mouse out of my washing machine?”

“Throw a towel over him, then scoop him up and take him outside.”

Okay. I can do this. I found an old towel, took a deep breath, and opened the lid. But as soon as The Rat King saw daylight, he leapt into the air, trying to make a great escape. I screamed again, slammed the door down, and clenched my chest. This rodent would surely lead to my demice.

I called my brother. No answer. Surely there was a man somewhere in the vicinity who was available and willing to help a poor, frightened woman. After all, the Bible tells us to help widows and orphans in distress! Since my husband was gone, I took liberties to place myself in the widows and orphans category.

I called First Baptist Church. “May I speak with the pastor?”

“He’s studying right now. May I have him call you back?”

Hmmmm. I hesitated to say it was an emergency, even though in my mind, it was. “No, that’s all right.”

“Is there something I can help you with?”

“Uhm . . . well, can you promise to keep this confidential?” I didn’t want to be the laughingstock. Yes, I realize I’m telling the whole town by writing this article, and I’ll probably be the laughingstock.  But as I type this, I’m not facing a killer-disease-carrying rodent.

“Certainly.”

“I have a mouse in my washing machine.”

“Is it alive?”

“Yes.”

It took a minute for her to recover from her hysterical laughter. “I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you. It’s just . . . the situation.” By this time, I was laughing too. “Let me see what I can do, and I’ll call you back,” the woman said.

Within ten minutes, a kind-sounding man called. Within a half hour, one of the deacons from the First Baptist Church was on my doorstep. He had thick work gloves and an empty coffee can and lid. I ushered him into my laundry room with a warning that while the rodent looked like a mouse, it had the jumping power of a kangaroo rat. Within two more minutes, the mouse was in the coffee can, lid on, and my new favorite deacon walked down the street and released my tiny terrorist into the woods.

I re-washed my laundry, using lots of bleach. Since then, things have been pretty quiet around the Brumbaugh household. No more mini-predators. No more near-death panic attacks.

I am so grateful to First Baptist Church and a gracious man who probably had much better things to do with his time. That simple deed didn’t make the news. It didn’t sway world politics or end any wars. But it made a difference in my little world.

And really, isn’t that what it’s all about? Doing a little bit of good where we can, helping people in small ways whenever possible? When we make good deeds a habit, we really do change the world. Bit by small bit, kindness by kindness, people learn that we care. And eventually, they realize that God cares about them, too.

Even in the little things.

“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up,” Galatians 6:9.