Life is its own maestro, traversing through the seasons with wonderful symmetry and rhythm. In Ecclesiastes chapter 3:1-8, we are given a beautiful word picture of this rhythm that God has affixed to our very lives. I could dedicate this entire post to that passage, how much I love it and why. But today, I want to bring attention to just one little part of it. The part where I identify with a God who granted laughter.
In fact, verse 3 reads;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
With that in mind, I'd like to share with you a story from my childhood. It's one that makes my husband laugh every time he hears it. And in all seriousness, I do believe a little holy "dancing" was involved as well. It goes like this...
When I was a little girl, maybe 4 or 5 years old, our family pet was a beautiful cat named Nero. Now Nero wasn't just any ol' Tom cat. Nero, as his name suggests, was a most distinguished and prominent cat. He was a big beautiful Chocolate Burmese.
One day, my Mom decided that Nero needed a bath and she promptly petitioned my Dad to "volunteer" for the job of cat washer. Dad was not at all convinced Nero needed bathing, nor was he thrilled about his part in it. But not wanting to drag out the inevitable (Nero was going to get a bath once Mom set her mind to it), he reluctantly agreed.
A bath was drawn in the tub upstairs, then Dad gathered boy Nero into his arms and made his way into the bathroom. Mom, who followed closely behind, decided that it would be a good idea to close the bathroom door, "just in case Nero tries to escape."
After all, cats don't like water (uh hem).
It was assumed that all would be well, that Dad would place Nero in the shallow warm water of the tub and quickly bathe him, what with cats not liking water and all (uh hem).
The task would take but a few minutes, the cat would be clean, and Mom would be blissfully happy.
Ah, but it was not to be. For on that day, in the next few seconds after Mom had closed the door,...it. all. went. something. like. THIS.
We could hear the cat screeching angrily, as if ready to engage in an all-out cat fight. And we could hear Dad screaming some unintelligible jargon, clearly suggestive of an unforseen struggle with the cat.
Mom, in a wave of confusion and quick thinking, thought it would be best to grab hold of the door handle with both hands, "just in case the cat tries to get away." After all, Nero needed that bath. The next few moments were a blur of Mom hanging on to the door handle with all her might as the cat howled and screeched from behind it, along with Dad, who was bellowing and yowling himself.
Finally, Dad was able to yell a single sentence coherently.
LET! GO! OF! THIS! DOOR! NOW!!!"
I could see the confusion on Mom's face. The moral dilemma. Should she open the door in response to the frantic command given by her husband? Or should she see to it, mission completed, that Nero stayed inside until his bath was finished?
As quickly as she had furled her eyebrows, the decision was made. Deciding in favor of Dad's command, and with one giant step backward, Mom let go of the door handle and out he flew, angrily hissing.
With the cat on his back.
The thin white cotton undershirt that all men wore back in the late 60's was somewhat shredded. And Nero was hanging on for all he was worth. And Dad's back looked like a favorite scratching post. Oh my, did he ever have the parallel line scratch marks to prove it too.
For days after that, I recall that his back was painted with mecurochrome, a nasty red liguid that basically singed the germs out of minor cuts and scratches. Today, it would probably just be the equivilent of pouring Tabasco sauce directly onto a wound. Yeow!
So there you have it.
The story that makes my husband laugh heartily every time he hears it.
He and my dad are very close and always have been. Always laughing
After all, God did author that we should laugh in due season.
I'll close with a conversation that took place in our house yesterday.
Reece, age 8, while reading a science library book, inquired of me, "Mommy, what do plankton eat? I know many sea creatures eat plankton, but....what do the plankton eat?"
Brandon, age 3, quickly chimed in. "He eats cwabby patties, then he plays wiff his mom."
Live wise in Him!~Toni~