The Parable of the Bucket
(not for the weak stomached!)
There was a bug; no, thousands of microscopic bugs, scurrying round and round. Hidden to human eyes, they infiltrated the very life of the young body that they inhabited. Their evidence remained cloaked and undetected, yet inevitably their presence in the body set off the carefully maintained equilibrium. Something needed to go. With a rolling stomach in turmoil with the bacteria, my sweet child cried out in confusion, “Mommy, I need something.” The feeling of needing, not knowing what was needed, just needing. At 1:00 in the morning when your usually calm, sleeping child needs, parents know. There were no thoughts of my own sleep only the tasks at hand.
Collect the inventory required – quick!
- a glass of water
- thermometer
- face cloth
- the token bucket
Throw in a healthy amount of hugging for good measure. Finally, her body jumped to its act of responsibility and waged a violent war with the miniscule enemies. With one onslaught after another the enemy weakened its hold. Each time the acidic feeling warned in advance. The call for help was heralded. The instantaneous feeling of clarity in helping my treasure with her vigil and the relief when each surge was over flooded my heart.
Oh, how we wrestled through the night. The enemy was defeated and my love for this gift I have been entrusted with had grown.
So it is when we examine our inner soul. Sin, guilt, envy, strife, sadness, loneliness are the evil destroyers, not even microscopic but nonetheless enormous in their destructive behaviour. These “sinteria” can build up for years. They have a cyclical power, at times rearing their ugly head and, at times, easily quenched by token “positive” thoughts”, trite prayers, and basic business of life. It is only when their carrier declares “ENOUGH!” that they cease to be. The declaration involves a battle – crying out to our Source, we come to a place of utter humility. Only He can provide the proper inventory to deal with the task at hand; the cleansing wipe with His sacrificial love, the quenching water of His character, the ever-present bucket of compassion. With the expulsion of our acidic sputum, he gently caresses us with His gentle hands of unequivocal love. At our side he is silent, armed with the elements of battle. He aids us as we release the poison – the anger, the bitter words, the torment of years of hurt – they all coming pouring out. We try to stop, holding in the stench of the sickness.
Gently, He urges us to let it out, “Just try to get it in the bucket,” he softly comforts.
“Oh, Daddy, thank you for helping me with this. I needed you so much tonight.”
“It’s OK, sweet child. I will go put this away and I will come back and stay beside you while you fall asleep.”
“Daddy, will I feel better in the morning?”
“Yes my child. I made you that way - my mercies are new every morning.”
With a soft fluttering of tired eyelids rest settles upon me, soft as a newborn lamb, gentle as a spring breeze. I exhale, wanting nothing but this feeling of newness and His presence with me, forever.
This thought came to me last year as my child’s bout with the flu coincided with a great chapter in Yancey’s book on Prayer. It challenged me to give God my honest thoughts and let Him help me sort them out. For some reason I want to come to God with freshly ironed thoughts. He wants to see us before we tidy up.