MUDDERS

It was a Sunday morning.      .      .

more Sunday’s ago than I can actually calculate

but I was in college and tired of studying.   .   .

It was raining

and so I took the car when I normally would have walked the

few blocks to a Church

that was getting built next door to an old city mansion

where the Church

was now meeting until the building was completed.

The Parking Lot.      .      .

more   of   a   muddy   field   was

u     n     m     a     n     e     u     v     e     r     a     b     l     e 

My first mistake

was that I actually tried getting out of the car

I sunk to my ankles in cold, wet mud

There were about a dozen men and a few woman standing on the porch

watching me

s    i    n   k

and then push my

car

It took a while

NO          O N E          H E L P E D

or even yelled to offer.

I fell several times

and my clothes and shoes were more mud than cloth and leather.

I     made     it

In college,

I lived with my grandmother’s;

when she saw me and my mud covered car

she fumed

as I told her the story

and began stripping out of my mud caked clothes.

I’ll never forget what she said

after calling

the good Church folk

some not so kindly

Church folk names:

“Those bunch of hypocrites.  .  .that’s exactly why I don’t go to Church.   .   .”

I yelled over my shoulder as I was going down the basement steps to the Washer:

“and that’s exactly why I want to serve One.   .   .”

Since   t h a t   I can’t count

the times I’ve found myself in

one muddy field

after another

pushing

struggling

cursing

my way through

I don’t notice so much anymore

just who’s watching

who’s noticing

who’s just passively

observing

or actually turning the other way.

Sometimes

in all of that Mud

it’s even harder to figure out

really where I want

really what I want to

 b     e  ?

And I can’t fathom

this   is   where   I   was   meant  to  be

here

now

again

in the mud

in the not so pretty

in the not so acceptable

in  the  not  so  easy  to  get  completely  clean  place.    .    .

And then

Sometimes, because it seems

like it happens in

blink-of-the-eye-quickness

I go from one

muddy place

to another

without having the opportunity

to even sprinkle off

A N D     T H A T ‘ S      W H E N      I T     H I T S      M E

I am at

my absolute best

WHEN   I   AM   AT   MY    MUDDIEST;

My Best

When I’m at my most uncleanest;

When I’m at my most Soiled-est;

When I’m at my most filthiest;

When I’m at my most dingiest;

When I’m at my most foulest;

because that’s where

the most people reside

right there

right there in the mud

pushing

struggling

cursing

their ways, too

It’s not so much that we help each other as it is

that we

N     O     T     I     C     E

R     E     C     O     G     N     I      Z     E

don’t turn away from

s          e          e           i          n          g

We        are       not       alone

We     are

M          U          D          D          E          R          S

one

and

all

in   need   of   a   shower

and   finding

barely   a   random

s       p       r       i       n       k       l       e

    y e t      being

g       r       a       t       e       f       u       l

just the same.     .     .     .