I appreciate wildlife better from afar.
I can coexist with undomesticated critters, but only if they respect my boundaries and interact with me completely on my terms.
Maybe you read the column I wrote awhile back about the “barking deer” that nearly launched me into full-on cardiac arrest as I sat out in our pasture one morning with my coffee and my Bible. It was certainly a flagrant violation of my wildlife rules.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t dislike deer, raccoons, possums, foxes, armadillos, squirrels, lizards, birds, or even mice, as long as they don’t want to get too chummy with me. But snakes, whoa buddy, now that’s different. My rule for snakes is simple: “Do not ever, ever, ever let me even see you. Poisonous or non-poisonous, it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to see you. Ever.”
Every hike through the woods begins with a silent prayer, “God, please steer every snake away from my path and my sight today. Amen.” God has usually answered that prayer, with a few memorable exceptions.
My husband insists some snakes are “good,” but “good snake” is an oxymoron in my universe.
I’m pretty sure my animosity toward snakes is biblical, going back to the curse God pronounced upon the serpent back in the Garden of Eden. But then why do so many wonderful, sane people think snakes are quite cool, including my five-year-old granddaughter?
As a matter of fact, my daughter-in-law recently texted me a photo of cheerful, calm little Edda holding a very large “good snake.” A tip of my hat to you, kid, but Gram is having none of it. I will never, on purpose and just for fun, pick up a snake.
Nope, not happening.
My daughter-in-law also recently found a snakeskin on my deck.
“Does this mean a snake was actually slithering around right here by the door?” I stupidly asked, hoping against hope that maybe the skin had blown in from some snake-infested place like Louisiana.
“Uh, yes,” Jessi said as she picked it up.
“I bet it was looking in, just watching me,” I grumbled.
Jessi laughed. That’s what snake-appreciators do around wimps like me.
I also had a recent encounter with a raccoon that was a little disconcerting. The coon was plundering our birdfeeders and when we finally caught him in the act, he glared at me as if to communicate, “You want some o’ me? Bring it on, lady.”
I don’t have enough room here to discuss all the wild critters that creep me out, but I simply must mention those terrorists of the beach—sharks, jellyfish, and stingrays.
Call me crazy, but I hate knowing I may be snacked upon, stung or skewered when I’m in the ocean.
Why am I telling you this? What’s the point of this public confession of one of my many irrational quirks? It’s this: Maybe some of you feel about God the way I feel about wild animals.
I know I used to. I believed He was there, but I wanted to keep Him a “safe” distance away. I wanted to relate to Him only on my terms.
Entrusting my life and future to Jesus Christ felt, at the time, like the riskiest thing in the world.
I was so wrong about that. Living apart from Him is by far the biggest risk and greatest tragedy.
There will come a day when it’s too late to draw near to God, but today isn’t that day.
Today, Jesus is still saying, “Come to Me, all who labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” (Matthew 11:28-29)