AUTUMN IS HERE. The calendar says so. The temperatures say so. And I know so because at our house we are fighting our annual battle with mice.
Yes, we have a mouse. Or, well, to be strictly accurate, he has us. I know this from previous experience. I know that our lives will not be worth living until this little rodent is history.
I myself could probably have lived with him a little while. I give him the benefit of the doubt. He lives in a parsonage. He is probably, therefore, a church mouse and very likely possesses high principles and a sound character. If he had just asked, I could have told him that we’d all be okay if he’d keep his nibbles inconspicuous, his holes small, and his hygiene impeccable. He could have lived long in our home and prospered. But not now.
A few days ago, my wife began seeing “mouse signs.” Brow furrowed, nostrils flaring, murder in her green and glaring eyes, she began making preparations for a holy war.
Two nights ago, she dispatched one rodent. Last night she tiled the kitchen floor with traps (worrying me a great deal more about broken toes and consequent medical bills than mice, but protest was futile). Then this morning, she banged on the light and pierced my consciousness screaming that the vile, vicious, pestilence-spreading rodent had just cleaned the traps and sped, right under her gaze, to safety behind the dishwasher.
Under the covers, I muttered, “I am incensed.” She glared at me. I didn’t see it, but I could feel it.
I had been worrying a bit lately about concerns common to forty-year-olds. Pretty mundane stuff like how we’re going to pay for college, replace an aging vehicle, achieve personal and work-related goals, etc. I’d even worried about worrying, knowing that Christians are not supposed to be given to anxiety. This mouse, I suppose, has blessed me. I promise you, until he is dead, no one in our home will be able to worry about anything else.
This mouse is good, I’ll give him that. Unlike his clumsy kinsman who perished on our kitchen floor caught in the jaws of the vicious traps set by my usually kind wife, this surviving rodent licks peanut butter (no kidding, it works better than cheese) right off the hinges of traps, wipes his lips, and burps contentedly as he slips away. This mouse is good.
He’s also dead, of course. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s a dead mouse walking. He should give himself up. Throw himself on the mercy of the court. Not that he would get any. Not from the judge he’ll face. And I’m not her.
I am thankful that your Judge and mine is full of mercy. I’m glad that our Judge is also our Savior.