Grace in a Time of Outhouses

I'm parked in the chair on The Veranda, my cup of The Elixir Of Knowledge steaming into a spring morning that still frosts car windows.

          I stare at slow-coloring clouds and think of...outhouses?!  Huh.  My mind's eye sees one particular outhouse.  An outhouse from which legends were made. 

          Dad grew up during The Great Depression.  But that's not how 9-year-old kids knew it.  To them, it was just life.   A life of friends and adventures and all that it entailed. Adventures ranged from "Wow, this is so cool!" to "I'll never listen to you again!" to "Mommy!!!".   The end is what makes an adventure memorable The greater the adventure, the greater the ending.   Good or bad. Here’s an example.

          If you popped a Mentos into your mouth and took a swig of Coke you'd have a foamy adventure reminiscent of the mad cows in "Hud".

          Pop a six-pack of Mentos, chug a Coke, and you blast right up the Adventure Scale.  A blast that comes out your nose.  And all over your shirt, pants, and anyone nearby.  It's a stupid thing to do, right? But I do miss that shirt…and the party was kinda boring anyways.

          And that brings us to a key ingredient of any adventure.  Stupidity.  Youth and peer pressure allow for the maximum dose of stupidity, exponentially increasing the odds of a disastrous ending.   An adventure more or less doomed from the start - but, ohhhh so memorable.

          Dad's adventure was on an Iowan Halloween night in a small town.  But it was birthed and incubated over a week earlier by a conversation at the barber shop.

          "Them durn kids ain't knockin' over my outhouse this year."

          "Whaddaya mean, Earl Brown?"    (Author's choice...Dad forgot his name.)

          "They ain't knockin' it over.  I made special mod-ee-fa-kations.  Can't be done."

          The gauntlet was thrown.  An adventure was born.

          Word spread through town faster than salmonella at a church picnic.   Wherever two or more adults gathered to gossip, the challenge was echoed.

      "Old Brown said they ain't knockin' over his outhouse this year."

          On that moonlit Halloween night, Earl Brown's back porch was full of adults and beverages, awaiting the culmination of the challenge.

          Three homes away, under the muted glow of a street light, a herd of kids congregated in the alley.  This distance, according to one of the ring leaders, should let them reach maximum velocity before impact.  Or as the ring leader put it, "We'll hit that sucker like a tonna bricks!".  That’s the kind of eloquence that lets kids be ring leaders and gets politicians re-elected.

          The horde sprinted off with a fervor that would've made Attila the Hun proud.  They thundered down the alley and swooped up into the yard.  Dad’s heart was in the deed but his inseam didn't allow the speed.   He was toward the back of the pack as they turned into the yard.  A blessing in disguise.

          There was a loud noise on impact, followed by cries, wails, and the kicking of feet.

          The outhouse was still upright.  The modifications had allowed it to slide over four feet.  Just far enough to expose the hole.   And at the bottom of this hole were four of the fastest kids in town, up to their waist in...waste.

          The uproar of laughter from the porch rolled over the befuddled youngsters.   Dad crept up to the abyss and peeked over the edge.  His best friend looked up at him, crying, covered in the Browns' brown.

          Someone brought a ladder over and stuck it in the hole.  The few, the cowed, the humiliated, climbed out.  The laughter washing over them did nothing to remove the clinging poo.

          Dad walked his friend back home.   Social distancing was not a problem.  His mother was waiting on the front porch.  Back then, the local switchboard and gossip circles were the internet of a small town.  And it was faster than dial-up.

          "No way, mister.  Go-sit-in-the-ri-ver-un-til-you-are-clean.  Then get to the back door for a hosin'."

          The two boys turned away with that Christmas Eve feeling Mary and Joseph must've had.  They walked the few blocks to the river.  Dad sat on the bank as his friend sat neck-deep in the muddy water.  They talked and waited until his friend, like Naaman, could exit the river with his problem washed away.

          I lean back, staring at nothing.  I've had a few adventures like that.   Adventures that didn't end well.  A pull of the Elixir brings it into focus.   Stupidity.   Yeah.   That's what the Book calls "sin". 

          I've been down in that outhouse hole. Had no clue how to get outta the poo.   And no one offered a ladder.  Or even a hand.

          Just backbiting laughter.  Polite ridicule.  Quiet condemnation.

          Then He walked past the onlookers and jumped in, wading over to me as he hooked his fingers.  He put his back to the wall and smiled.

          "Let's get you outta here."

          He boosted me out of that hole then walked with me down to a River that was crimson red.  He smiled and nodded.  I waded in and went under, coming up clean.

          "Here, put these on.  Gimme your old stuff."

          He handed me a new set of clothes that matched His.   The smell of waste and death was gone, replaced with the incredible smell of clean.   It had the aroma of life and hope.   Of forgiveness and purpose

          I blink at the clouds with misty eyes and sigh, almost overcome with the realization.   Whatta Friend, eh?   I am soooo glad that stupidity can never erase Grace.

Because He promises it won't.

And that's more than good enough for me.