Getting My Feet Dirty

I climbed over a chain-link fence this summer--bare footed. My toes frantically tried to grip the wobbly metal like monkey fingers. My brain thinks I am still young and lithe, like a panther. Yet, my body does not jive with my brain's assessment. I am sure the sight of a 36-year old mom quavering on top of a fence was comical to anyone passing by. Thankfully I made it to the other side of the fence safely, yet very ungracefully.

As a child, I ran barefoot all summer long. I remember the gentle tickle of grass on my feet as we ran barefoot playing hide and seek, tag, and red rover with neighborhood children. And I remember the heat of the Alabama asphalt on my feet as we ran down street after street chasing the ice cream truck. We spent summers climbing trees searching for the shed skin of cicadas high in the tree branches. I remember getting to pick a watermelon out of my uncle’s garden one summer. My cousins and I were joyous as the adults cut slices for us to eat on my uncle's back deck. The ripe fruit juice covered our bare arms & legs and we were sticky for the rest of the day, with dirt and watermelon seeds covering us.

I loved my messy, sticky, wild and adventurous childhood. Therefore, it would seem logical that I would want similar experiences for my children—squishing barefoot through mud, climbing treacherously high trees, having sticky fingers and feet all day long. Yet, my agenda includes safer things, neater things—like soccer lessons, ballet, or playing in the driveway (no mud there).

One of the things impressed upon me this summer was how the Lord often places people in our lives to shake us up a little. One of these people for me was a sweet friend (yes, she’s the one that had me climbing the chain-link fence). One evening this summer, she and I walked to her neighborhood park, with our 5 kids in tow. To get to the park, we had to walk through a field that was full of mud from a few rainy days we had that week. There was also a little creek at the back of the park in a wooded area. I was immediately certain the water was infested with water moccasins and all kinds of other deadly creatures. I was silently praying my children would have NO interest in the creek. To my dismay, my children are forever drawn to water and mud.

I was shocked as my friend’s children happily jumped barefoot into the muddy little creek. My friend did not bat an eye—she was not whipping out hand sanitizer or forbidding them to explore the creek. In fact, she was encouraging it! I stood on the little bank of the creek wondering, WHO is this woman? Her son waded into the depths and caught tadpoles and a crayfish. Her daughter got her shoe stuck in the muddy water. My friend patiently dug through the mud to retrieve the shoe and then rinsed it in the creek water. She then patiently tended to my daughter who was covered in mud and crying. I just stood to the side trying to avoid the mud and diligently watching for snakes in the murky water.

We were all covered in mud by the end of our excursion, but we washed off in the creek as best as we could. We were sweaty and muddy and still had to walk quite a way to get back home—pulling a wagon of children, a bucket of tadpoles, and at least one child who was crying most of the way (my child). Adding to the adventure, we climbed the fence on the way back into her backyard-- the wobbly fence that almost cost me my life and a few toes.

After we got back to her house, we rinsed off again--this time with a water hose and soap. We scrubbed little feet one after the other unable to eliminate the mud stuck in toe crevices and under toenails. My precious friend then served us dinner. I don’t remember everything we ate, but I think there was a delicious salad somewhere in the mix. More importantly, I remember feeling loved and encouraged and alive. As the breeze gently blew through the screened-in porch, I could hear the muffled laughter of our children wafting through the air and a dog barking in the distance.

After dinner, I watched in amazement as my friend grabbed a container of gasoline and proceeded to make a bonfire in the backyard. Again, I was stunned and wondering WHO is this person? Ironically, our daughters were in the same ballet class. I had no idea that Moms scaled fences, waded in mud, or could use a gasoline can to start a fire.

We roasted marshmallows and made s’mores as the sun set. And I was truly thankful for the wonderful love that my Savior has for me--through a friend giving me and my children a night of adventure and surprise. And how He used it to rekindle the flame of adventure in my own heart—a desire to put away the hand sanitizer every now and then and let my children be wild and messy and free. Heck, I may even get a little wild and get my feet muddy too!