I aimed and fired.
“I don’t NEED you!”
All over a pair of muddy boots. The ones I wore to chase wonders down by Lake Abby a few weeks back. The ones that are always in the back kitchen.
I’d asked him to wash them off for me. He said he would. Now I can’t find them, and I need to go feed the birds.
But he doesn’t remember me asking him to do that. Nor does he know where the boots are. Maybe the basement?
They are always in the back kitchen. If they’re in the basement, he took them there.
I slip into flip flops, grab an orange suet cake, and stomp out into wet grass.
He waves the boots at me from the kitchen door. “They were in the basement.”
“I’m not putting them on unless you make sure there are no spiders in them!”
He feels around inside them. “Nope. No spiders.”
I finish my “chores” in my flip flops.
Later he kisses me good-bye while I still growl under my breath.
But I also feel a bit sheepish.
Because the reality is that I DO need him.
I mean, who else would check for spiders?
Who else would dare to kiss a mad mud hen?
And I desperately, desperately need God.
I lost Him for a little while this morning.
So I went looking for Him with my muddy boots (I wore socks inside–just in case.)
But I didn’t need to go far.
He met me just outside the back door.
And the reality is–He’s always there.
In every muddy moment.
And after He hosed me down, I hosed down my boots.
Writing in community today with Lisa Jo, the Gypsy Mama, for five minutes on the prompt of Real.