My sixteen year old son and I heaved the big black trash bags into the back of the pickup. We had already loaded the wooden chair with the broken leg and the fallen branches of the cottonwood tree. After I was content that we had collected every last piece of castaways from the garage and house, we were ready to take the load to “the pit.”
We lived on a sugar beet farm and “the pit” was just that – a deep dirt pit. It reminded me of the buffalo jumps the natives utilized in the 1800’s to secure their food. Instead of bison, this pit was the final destination of anything not wanted on the farm. Worn out furniture as well as appliances, tree limbs, rusted wire, general garbage – you name it…went into the pit. It was our rural version of the city dump.
Daniel, having recently obtained his driver’s license, took on the job of driving whenever feasible – or not. He slid into the driver’s seat as I resigned myself to the passenger seat. We rounded the grove of trees that hid the pit. My son maneuvered the pickup around to face the road and began backing it up into unloading position.
Quicker than “two shakes of a dead lamb’s tail” (as my father would say), an overwhelming dread and uncontrollable feeling of fear came over me. I dove for the passenger floor board; curled into fetal position, hands and arms covering my head. But, the crash never came.
“Mom, what are you doing?” Daniel implored, in a concerned, yet perplexed voice he seldom used. It was the first moment of realizing I had a fear of unprotected edges. I climbed sheepishly onto the seat, my eyes moist with relieved tears. Daniel was still staring at me like I had lost my mind and I wasn’t so sure I hadn’t.
“You were scared we were going to go off backwards – into the pit, weren’t you, Mom?”
Still speechless, I nodded. Daniel reassured me that we were still several feet from the edge and when I got my sea legs beneath me and checked – he was right. I had had no reason to worry.
A few deep breaths later, I attempted to refocus on the job at hand. I looked down into that pit. So much trash! Had we really crashed and lived to tell about it, we would have had to climb through all “the muck and mire” to get out.
There are all kinds of pits we can get stuck in. Pits that are hard to climb out of – maybe addictions, depression, relationship battles, a financial crisis, health issues, spiritual warfare, and so many more. Is there anyone that can help when we are desperate? Yes, there is! Take a look at Psalms 40:2. He also brought me up out of a horrible pit, out of the miry clay. And set my feet upon a rock. And established my steps. No one knows this better than a recovered addict, a convicted criminal, an abandoned spouse, a rejected child, a bankrupt CEO, or a dying parent, that has put their trust in Jesus.
With Jesus, there is always hope. It’s never too late to let Him be your guide. Take His hand and let Him lift you up, out of whatever pit you might be in. If you’re not sure how to do this, find a Christian friend or pastor to help you. Planting your feet upon the Rock of Jesus is the first step to walking away from that pit of despair.
Until next month – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.