mud bugs & flatulence, sandwiches & ants, & sin
The summer between my fourth and fifth grade years the family moved to North Carolina so that my father could attend Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary. For all intents and purposes I had never lived anywhere but Alaska, and to say it was a cultural and climatological shock would be a minimalist eye view. I experienced racism for the first time I could remember, humidity, cloudbursts, large ugly spiders, country dirt roads, snakes, ghosts, and many, many other things.
It would be fair to say that a good number of my clearest and most frequent memories revolved around bugs. Big bugs. Lots of bugs. Weird bugs. Bugs that crawled. Ones that slithered. Others that ran wickedly fast. And still others that, dear God, flew! You can even take each of the previous qualities and add flying to the beginning of every statement. Like this:
Flying weird bugs... Flying ones that slithered... Flying others that ran wickedly fast... I didn't say the statements would be better because you added 'flying' to the beginning. Or even that they would be grammatically coherent. But there is something a bit creepy about 'flying others', won't you agree?
When it comes to weird and creepy, what would be creepier to an eleven-year-old Alaska boy than the first time he encounters a mud bug? Crawfish, crayfish, crawdad, yabbies, Louisiana lobster, nipper, ditch bug... I was digging in the ditch out in front of my house. In my memory it seems like it was pretty deep, and there was a wonderfully wet, slippery mud under the scrubby layer of grass that grew there. I was quite enjoying digging holes and running my hot-wheels through the muck when I thought that I saw something wriggle in the mud. I chased it with my fingers. I caught the flash of an unfamiliar shiny tail as it disappeared beneath the squishy red clay. I lunged for it, making a mental and physical stab at its projected location, and I was met with what I thought was success. It quickly became horror, and the little creature I pulled from the mire came into view. In shame, I admit that it was nothing but abject terror that washed over me in what had been such pleasant play pit. I had never, ever seen anything like it. The beast pinched me! I screamed like a little girl and threw it down in the mud. In an instant, with impossible speed, it plunged its grotesque, radioactively deformed, insectile body back into the primordial ooze it had been breeched from only moments before. Ewww!
School started at Glendale Elementary - Middle School at the fairly standard seasonal time that we, in America, are accustomed to. The blaze of summer had nearly paled but, in the deep south, true fall colors and temperatures were still weeks away. I was placed in Mrs. Lucas' fifth grade class. She was old, and wrinkled, and dour. She had a penchant for asking somewhat rhetorical questions in an effort to evoke thought about some inappropriate behavior that was, without fail, occurring among me and the four or five boys I eventually called my schoolyard friends. Mikey, Donnie, Raymond, Lee, and Luby. We had a favorite question which was usually provoked by Luby Hocutt. This could be elicited by young master Luby letting one rip during class, the most sinister of which was, of course, the silent but deadly. Make no mistake, Luby had no qualms about firing off a volley of machine guns in amazing staccato rat-a-tat-tat fashion. Or, he could unload a thunder shot where, by his own description, he would slightly rise from his chair and create a bubble of pressure between himself and the seat of his chair. With precision, military worthy timing, he would drop his body to the chair and 'burst the bubble' producing near deafening explosions. I don't profess to understand the physics of this, but I cannot deny the devastating effects. The one we feared the most was the 'nuclear option'. For kids growing up in the shadow of the Cold War, we knew all too well the terrible implications should this scorched earth weapon be unleashed from its dark silo. Most amazing in all of these assaults was that Luby could produce them almost at will! He was a walking, talking, poisonous gas plant.
But, no matter which weapon had been unleashed, Mrs. Lucas would pierce the ensuing fog with the same searing question every time. The first time this happened, Donnie Mitchell had forewarned me, "Once it happens, don't make a sound. Wait for the question, no matter how long it takes." I felt as if I were a soldier in the service of a dangerous mission, and the code of our silence determined its success. On this occasion, my rookie mission, Luby used the tried, true, and favorite weapon; a thunder shot. As the sound reverberated in the room there was silence in its wake. We waited with anticipation for the question. Mrs. Lucas sat up in her desk, her face a scowl and peered over the top of her glasses, perched on the end of her nose.
"Does someone need to use the restroom?"
Silence. Then, louder.
"Does someone need to use the restroom?"
And without fail, one of the boys would quietly respond, in a disguised voice, "Not anymore."
This, of course, produced the desired gut busting laughs, proper moans of disgust and, typically, a short sermon about respecting the air of others. Predictably, any sermon utilizing the concept of shared air space was simple fodder for more laughter. I have to admit, it never got old or unfunny. Looking back, I can now imagine why Mrs. Lucas was old, wrinkled, and dour. I thought she was mean to boot. And no wonder! God knows how many years she had put up with rascals like us.
And so it came about that, on a particular day in late fall, the class had made our way to the lunch room at our appointed time. We walked down the two flights of stairs from our second floor classroom to the lunch space which had several eight foot folding tables and metal chairs arranged around them. I was carrying my Peanuts lunch pail. You know, Snoopy and the gang. My box was a yellow metal number that was fashioned more like an old school lunch pail than the more common square suitcase style that most of my friends carried. Mine was taller than it was wide and had a flip open top with metal snap latches in the front. Inside the top was a little compartment where the thermos was stored. And on this day, I had the fairly normal elementary school lunch of PB&J on Wonder bread, chips, an apple, and Kool-aid in my thermos. All of my things were packed in Glad sandwich bags. Not Zip-Loc mind you. There was no such invention yet. Instead, these bags were very flimsy plastic that the sandwich slid into, and the bag had a funky little flap that you could fold over the top to 'close' it so that things didn't fall out.
I grabbed my sandwich, which was cut in half straight across the middle, and not diagonally. I really loved PB&J and this was one of my favorites, with that lovely squishy white bread and plenty of grape jelly to offset the peanut butter. Eleven-year-old culinary heaven. Somewhere around my third or fourth bite into the first half of the sandwich I looked down at the food in my hand and noticed that my mom had added something to my lunch I had never seen before. There were flecks of black pepper all over the outside of my sandwich. Except that the pepper was moving.
I looked into my lunch pail and saw that all of my food had moving pepper specks all over it. In fact, the entire interior of my pail seemed to be moving with black bits contrasted against the bright yellow background. They weren't pepper grains. They were tiny black ants. Literally hundreds of them. When had my lunch pail become an ant hill? Why had these tiny creatures invaded the sacred space of my private food store? Was it a personal attack? Was I singled out? Had anyone else's lunch been cannibalized by the stealthy pincer headed attackers?
I looked again at the partially eaten PB&J in my hand and the realization landed on me. I had been eating PBJ&A for lunch. At least three bites of them. Time warped to a standstill. Sweat popped out on my forehead and I fought the lurching feeling that rolled through my stomach. I had never fainted, but I suddenly knew what it was like to have the feeling of tunnel vision and impending darkness. I seriously considered for a moment that I would simply keep eating my food and pretend that nothing was wrong! Why? Because I didn't want anyone to know I had just eaten ants! Ultimately, I did not hurl or pass out, but I clearly showed significant signs of distress because I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up and there was the face of Mrs. Lucas. She quickly surveyed the circumstance and grabbed the half-eaten ant sandwich from my hand and tossed it into the pail. With one swift move she snapped the lid closed and then flipped the latches. Looking at me with what can only be described as compassion, she said, "Come with me."
I rose from my chair and followed her to the hot lunch line. She asked if I was still hungry and, even though I wasn't sure that I was, I nodded. Then old, wrinkly, dour Mrs. Lucas reached into the pocket on the front of her dress and pulled out some money. She paid the lunch lady and told her to give me whatever I asked for. Suddenly, she seemed less old, less wrinkly, and less dour. Her compassion in the midst of my great trouble altered my perception.
So what do mud bugs and ants have to do with sin? What about passing gas in a fifth grade classroom? I know it's taken a long time to get to this point in the post. If you've stayed with me this long, then hang on for just a few more paragraphs. I'll try very hard to make it worth your while. There is a very famous verse in the Bible that says this: "For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord." Romans 6:23
Imagine with me for a minute that, in my stories, sin is represented by the ditch I played in and the PB&J sandwich. Both of them were fun, exciting, distracting, and seemingly non-threatening. In the case of the sandwich, it was painfully familiar, satisfyingly sweet, and presumably good for me.
In the ditch, as I played merrily along, I was suddenly engrossed in the grasping for something mysterious and unknown. It lured me on with small glimpses of shiny fun-ness (not a real word), and when I caught it the little bugger bit me.
With my sandwich; it looked like the same sandwich I had every day. I loved that sandwich. It was gooey, sweet, nutty deliciousness and I knew it like an old friend. Except suddenly it had ants all over it. And I ate them without knowing I was doing so. And considered the option to keep eating them.
My admonition is this: Be careful. Temptation is a crafty force. The Father of Lies wields it like a silky blanket or a warm breeze. Even in the midst of the everyday, if we aren't vigilant, clearly common or even good endeavours can be perverted into opportunities to fail. That's what the enemy does. He can't create anything, but he can take the good and twist it, and thereby try to twist us.
So, I'm not telling any of us to stop playing in the ditch, or to lose the PB&J. Play as hard as you can, relish the mysteries, eat of the goodness in life. Be careful. Not because those things are bad, but because the enemy is bad. And he wants to ruin all of your goodness. Because the wages of sin is death. But thank Jesus, He comes along with lunch money when you realize your sandwich is full of ants. Take the lunch money and dump the ants. Cause you know what? Weird as it seems, you can convince yourself to eat the ants for a whole host of oddball reasons. Listen to me. Be careful. Do not eat the ants.
And what about the farting? There, I said it... Seriously, we were awful. Poor Mrs. Lucas was indeed old, wrinkly, and dour. And apparently kind, observant, and compassionate. I was the kid from Alaska and my family designed a slide show and presentation that we traveled around to churches to show people what Alaska was like. In 1976, Alaska was still a largely unknown frontier to the rest of the United States and everyone wanted to know about it. I invited Mrs. Lucas to one of those presentations. After the show she had very kind things to say, and then asked if I would bring our show to the class at school, it was so interesting.
And my buddy, Luby Hocutt? That rascal and ring leader of many silly adventures? He turned out pretty darned good. Here's a picture of Luby I found on the Internet.
Several months ago I went looking for some of the people I remembered from that year. Luby really stood out because he was funny and fearless. He was also the first one to make friends with me. On my first day he approached me on the playground, near the monkey bars, and stuck out his hand. His introduction was a little off-center, which made it an easy decision to be friends.
He said, "Hey, I heard you gotta a kinda funny name. Mine's Luby. What's yours?"
"Mine's Tracy", I replied, unsure of where this was going.
"Well, yeah. That's kinda funny for a boy. You wanna hang out with me and some other guys?"
Yes. Yes I did. And he was a good friend for that school year and the summer that followed. The very next summer my family moved back to Alaska and I lost touch with all of those guys, and Luby. There wasn't any internet, or cell phones to text long distance friends with. When miles and months separated you, the faces and friendships more or less slipped away beneath the surface of time. His picture here looks so much like the eleven-year-old boy I hold in my mind's eye. I wish I could tell you that the inter-webs coughed up an address, or a phone number; maybe even a Facebook page. But unfortunately, Luby C. Hocutt found himself on the wrong end of a motorcycle accident in 1995. He left behind a son and what appears to be a truly meaningful legacy.
How then do I fit him in this metaphor? He's you and me, of course. We all have our moments of bad behavior. We all make mistakes. Some of us make much bigger ones than serial flatulence at the expense of a retirement ready fourth grade teacher. But whatever the case, failures and mistakes big or small. Yabbies, bodily functions, or eating ants. If you're blessed, you may have the chance to do something better. Do something bigger. Do something good. Maybe even have an award for exceptional bravery and competence in your job as a firefighter and paramedic named after you. Maybe find that you can return to a faith and devotion to God you thought you had wasted. Take a minute and go read about my friend and his legacy. A rascal who made good. And, by all accounts, loved Jesus too. I'm looking forward to catching up later.
http://www.tobaccofarmlifemuseum.org/h-honors-and-memorials/216-hocutt-luby-c
And stop eating ants.
It would be fair to say that a good number of my clearest and most frequent memories revolved around bugs. Big bugs. Lots of bugs. Weird bugs. Bugs that crawled. Ones that slithered. Others that ran wickedly fast. And still others that, dear God, flew! You can even take each of the previous qualities and add flying to the beginning of every statement. Like this:
Flying weird bugs... Flying ones that slithered... Flying others that ran wickedly fast... I didn't say the statements would be better because you added 'flying' to the beginning. Or even that they would be grammatically coherent. But there is something a bit creepy about 'flying others', won't you agree?
When it comes to weird and creepy, what would be creepier to an eleven-year-old Alaska boy than the first time he encounters a mud bug? Crawfish, crayfish, crawdad, yabbies, Louisiana lobster, nipper, ditch bug... I was digging in the ditch out in front of my house. In my memory it seems like it was pretty deep, and there was a wonderfully wet, slippery mud under the scrubby layer of grass that grew there. I was quite enjoying digging holes and running my hot-wheels through the muck when I thought that I saw something wriggle in the mud. I chased it with my fingers. I caught the flash of an unfamiliar shiny tail as it disappeared beneath the squishy red clay. I lunged for it, making a mental and physical stab at its projected location, and I was met with what I thought was success. It quickly became horror, and the little creature I pulled from the mire came into view. In shame, I admit that it was nothing but abject terror that washed over me in what had been such pleasant play pit. I had never, ever seen anything like it. The beast pinched me! I screamed like a little girl and threw it down in the mud. In an instant, with impossible speed, it plunged its grotesque, radioactively deformed, insectile body back into the primordial ooze it had been breeched from only moments before. Ewww!
School started at Glendale Elementary - Middle School at the fairly standard seasonal time that we, in America, are accustomed to. The blaze of summer had nearly paled but, in the deep south, true fall colors and temperatures were still weeks away. I was placed in Mrs. Lucas' fifth grade class. She was old, and wrinkled, and dour. She had a penchant for asking somewhat rhetorical questions in an effort to evoke thought about some inappropriate behavior that was, without fail, occurring among me and the four or five boys I eventually called my schoolyard friends. Mikey, Donnie, Raymond, Lee, and Luby. We had a favorite question which was usually provoked by Luby Hocutt. This could be elicited by young master Luby letting one rip during class, the most sinister of which was, of course, the silent but deadly. Make no mistake, Luby had no qualms about firing off a volley of machine guns in amazing staccato rat-a-tat-tat fashion. Or, he could unload a thunder shot where, by his own description, he would slightly rise from his chair and create a bubble of pressure between himself and the seat of his chair. With precision, military worthy timing, he would drop his body to the chair and 'burst the bubble' producing near deafening explosions. I don't profess to understand the physics of this, but I cannot deny the devastating effects. The one we feared the most was the 'nuclear option'. For kids growing up in the shadow of the Cold War, we knew all too well the terrible implications should this scorched earth weapon be unleashed from its dark silo. Most amazing in all of these assaults was that Luby could produce them almost at will! He was a walking, talking, poisonous gas plant.
But, no matter which weapon had been unleashed, Mrs. Lucas would pierce the ensuing fog with the same searing question every time. The first time this happened, Donnie Mitchell had forewarned me, "Once it happens, don't make a sound. Wait for the question, no matter how long it takes." I felt as if I were a soldier in the service of a dangerous mission, and the code of our silence determined its success. On this occasion, my rookie mission, Luby used the tried, true, and favorite weapon; a thunder shot. As the sound reverberated in the room there was silence in its wake. We waited with anticipation for the question. Mrs. Lucas sat up in her desk, her face a scowl and peered over the top of her glasses, perched on the end of her nose.
"Does someone need to use the restroom?"
Silence. Then, louder.
"Does someone need to use the restroom?"
And without fail, one of the boys would quietly respond, in a disguised voice, "Not anymore."
This, of course, produced the desired gut busting laughs, proper moans of disgust and, typically, a short sermon about respecting the air of others. Predictably, any sermon utilizing the concept of shared air space was simple fodder for more laughter. I have to admit, it never got old or unfunny. Looking back, I can now imagine why Mrs. Lucas was old, wrinkled, and dour. I thought she was mean to boot. And no wonder! God knows how many years she had put up with rascals like us.
And so it came about that, on a particular day in late fall, the class had made our way to the lunch room at our appointed time. We walked down the two flights of stairs from our second floor classroom to the lunch space which had several eight foot folding tables and metal chairs arranged around them. I was carrying my Peanuts lunch pail. You know, Snoopy and the gang. My box was a yellow metal number that was fashioned more like an old school lunch pail than the more common square suitcase style that most of my friends carried. Mine was taller than it was wide and had a flip open top with metal snap latches in the front. Inside the top was a little compartment where the thermos was stored. And on this day, I had the fairly normal elementary school lunch of PB&J on Wonder bread, chips, an apple, and Kool-aid in my thermos. All of my things were packed in Glad sandwich bags. Not Zip-Loc mind you. There was no such invention yet. Instead, these bags were very flimsy plastic that the sandwich slid into, and the bag had a funky little flap that you could fold over the top to 'close' it so that things didn't fall out.
I grabbed my sandwich, which was cut in half straight across the middle, and not diagonally. I really loved PB&J and this was one of my favorites, with that lovely squishy white bread and plenty of grape jelly to offset the peanut butter. Eleven-year-old culinary heaven. Somewhere around my third or fourth bite into the first half of the sandwich I looked down at the food in my hand and noticed that my mom had added something to my lunch I had never seen before. There were flecks of black pepper all over the outside of my sandwich. Except that the pepper was moving.
I looked into my lunch pail and saw that all of my food had moving pepper specks all over it. In fact, the entire interior of my pail seemed to be moving with black bits contrasted against the bright yellow background. They weren't pepper grains. They were tiny black ants. Literally hundreds of them. When had my lunch pail become an ant hill? Why had these tiny creatures invaded the sacred space of my private food store? Was it a personal attack? Was I singled out? Had anyone else's lunch been cannibalized by the stealthy pincer headed attackers?
I looked again at the partially eaten PB&J in my hand and the realization landed on me. I had been eating PBJ&A for lunch. At least three bites of them. Time warped to a standstill. Sweat popped out on my forehead and I fought the lurching feeling that rolled through my stomach. I had never fainted, but I suddenly knew what it was like to have the feeling of tunnel vision and impending darkness. I seriously considered for a moment that I would simply keep eating my food and pretend that nothing was wrong! Why? Because I didn't want anyone to know I had just eaten ants! Ultimately, I did not hurl or pass out, but I clearly showed significant signs of distress because I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up and there was the face of Mrs. Lucas. She quickly surveyed the circumstance and grabbed the half-eaten ant sandwich from my hand and tossed it into the pail. With one swift move she snapped the lid closed and then flipped the latches. Looking at me with what can only be described as compassion, she said, "Come with me."
I rose from my chair and followed her to the hot lunch line. She asked if I was still hungry and, even though I wasn't sure that I was, I nodded. Then old, wrinkly, dour Mrs. Lucas reached into the pocket on the front of her dress and pulled out some money. She paid the lunch lady and told her to give me whatever I asked for. Suddenly, she seemed less old, less wrinkly, and less dour. Her compassion in the midst of my great trouble altered my perception.
So what do mud bugs and ants have to do with sin? What about passing gas in a fifth grade classroom? I know it's taken a long time to get to this point in the post. If you've stayed with me this long, then hang on for just a few more paragraphs. I'll try very hard to make it worth your while. There is a very famous verse in the Bible that says this: "For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord." Romans 6:23
Imagine with me for a minute that, in my stories, sin is represented by the ditch I played in and the PB&J sandwich. Both of them were fun, exciting, distracting, and seemingly non-threatening. In the case of the sandwich, it was painfully familiar, satisfyingly sweet, and presumably good for me.
In the ditch, as I played merrily along, I was suddenly engrossed in the grasping for something mysterious and unknown. It lured me on with small glimpses of shiny fun-ness (not a real word), and when I caught it the little bugger bit me.
With my sandwich; it looked like the same sandwich I had every day. I loved that sandwich. It was gooey, sweet, nutty deliciousness and I knew it like an old friend. Except suddenly it had ants all over it. And I ate them without knowing I was doing so. And considered the option to keep eating them.
My admonition is this: Be careful. Temptation is a crafty force. The Father of Lies wields it like a silky blanket or a warm breeze. Even in the midst of the everyday, if we aren't vigilant, clearly common or even good endeavours can be perverted into opportunities to fail. That's what the enemy does. He can't create anything, but he can take the good and twist it, and thereby try to twist us.
So, I'm not telling any of us to stop playing in the ditch, or to lose the PB&J. Play as hard as you can, relish the mysteries, eat of the goodness in life. Be careful. Not because those things are bad, but because the enemy is bad. And he wants to ruin all of your goodness. Because the wages of sin is death. But thank Jesus, He comes along with lunch money when you realize your sandwich is full of ants. Take the lunch money and dump the ants. Cause you know what? Weird as it seems, you can convince yourself to eat the ants for a whole host of oddball reasons. Listen to me. Be careful. Do not eat the ants.
And what about the farting? There, I said it... Seriously, we were awful. Poor Mrs. Lucas was indeed old, wrinkly, and dour. And apparently kind, observant, and compassionate. I was the kid from Alaska and my family designed a slide show and presentation that we traveled around to churches to show people what Alaska was like. In 1976, Alaska was still a largely unknown frontier to the rest of the United States and everyone wanted to know about it. I invited Mrs. Lucas to one of those presentations. After the show she had very kind things to say, and then asked if I would bring our show to the class at school, it was so interesting.
And my buddy, Luby Hocutt? That rascal and ring leader of many silly adventures? He turned out pretty darned good. Here's a picture of Luby I found on the Internet.
Several months ago I went looking for some of the people I remembered from that year. Luby really stood out because he was funny and fearless. He was also the first one to make friends with me. On my first day he approached me on the playground, near the monkey bars, and stuck out his hand. His introduction was a little off-center, which made it an easy decision to be friends.
He said, "Hey, I heard you gotta a kinda funny name. Mine's Luby. What's yours?"
"Mine's Tracy", I replied, unsure of where this was going.
"Well, yeah. That's kinda funny for a boy. You wanna hang out with me and some other guys?"
Yes. Yes I did. And he was a good friend for that school year and the summer that followed. The very next summer my family moved back to Alaska and I lost touch with all of those guys, and Luby. There wasn't any internet, or cell phones to text long distance friends with. When miles and months separated you, the faces and friendships more or less slipped away beneath the surface of time. His picture here looks so much like the eleven-year-old boy I hold in my mind's eye. I wish I could tell you that the inter-webs coughed up an address, or a phone number; maybe even a Facebook page. But unfortunately, Luby C. Hocutt found himself on the wrong end of a motorcycle accident in 1995. He left behind a son and what appears to be a truly meaningful legacy.
How then do I fit him in this metaphor? He's you and me, of course. We all have our moments of bad behavior. We all make mistakes. Some of us make much bigger ones than serial flatulence at the expense of a retirement ready fourth grade teacher. But whatever the case, failures and mistakes big or small. Yabbies, bodily functions, or eating ants. If you're blessed, you may have the chance to do something better. Do something bigger. Do something good. Maybe even have an award for exceptional bravery and competence in your job as a firefighter and paramedic named after you. Maybe find that you can return to a faith and devotion to God you thought you had wasted. Take a minute and go read about my friend and his legacy. A rascal who made good. And, by all accounts, loved Jesus too. I'm looking forward to catching up later.
http://www.tobaccofarmlifemuseum.org/h-honors-and-memorials/216-hocutt-luby-c
And stop eating ants.
Labels: Alaska, ants. crawdad, Bible, c3ak, fart, friends, Luby Hocutt, lunch, North Carolina, PBJ, sin, Snoopy, summer
posted by Pastor Tracy Simmons at
11:39 PM
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