It’s absolutely amazing how fast one’s heart rate can go from calm to distress.
I had walked so confidently to the closet in my hall—hall being a generous term for the 4X5 foot space separating my bathroom and bedroom from the kitchen. It holds three doors, one of which goes to a little room used as a pantry, a linen closet, and a vacuum keeper.
Granted, it takes some effort to keep my towels from smelling like garlic, and the door always sticks, giving a few creaks and groans as it opens, something I am now grateful for.
But I digress.
I was especially cheerful because I had just returned from a delightful twenty-four hours. When my girls sent me two tickets to see a musical for my birthday, I knew who would get that second ticket—my friend Debbie. She is always up for an adventure.
Three years ago, we groaned inwardly when a mutual friend talked about connecting us. We may be widows, but we are not wallflowers. Let’s just say that neither of us is looking to start the “widow whiners who sit on their hinders” club.
We hit it off instantly.
Together, we decided to get a hotel room, thus sparing an hour-long late drive back home. On a beautiful February day, we went to downtown Charlotte, had a lovely Thai supper, and walked to the Arts Center to be entertained.
Ten minutes into the show, the actors walked off the stage, and a voice came over the speakers, “Ladies and gentlemen, due to a technical difficulty, we must stop our show.” We thought they were joking. They weren’t. The good news is that it was a temporary setback, and the show eventually continued.
The bad news is that Debbie and I both suffered from food poisoning during the night.
Well, actually, that wasn’t the bad news. We moved slowly the next day but eventually returned to our respective residences. That’s when the bad news began.
Opening the closet door, I saw mice scampering in all directions. Gasping, I slammed the door. Fearing some mice would slip out, I quickly grabbed a towel from the bathroom and crammed it tightly under the door. Breathing deeply and sinking to the floor, I willed my heart to be still.
No one was going to come to my rescue. These were mice, not bobcats. I would have to be the hero.
I did not want to be the hero.
Grimacing, I stood and slowly opened the door. The mice had temporarily retreated, but in their wake was a mess that almost defies description. They had managed to come up through the tiniest cracks in the floor boards, chew holes through the carpet, get into food packaging I had thought resilient (you know, the child-proof kind even adults can’t open?), and eat through several hand towels, all while leaving nasty little black presents all over.
I did not take pictures. I was horrified that this would happen in my house—the shame was too great.
With rubber gloves and a bucket filled with hot water and disinfectant, I cleaned up the mess. I moaned, I eewed, I muttered “gross” at least a hundred times. But I wasn’t about to quit.
I sought advice from those who’d been there, then went to buy mouse traps and poison. After a few untimely and near-fatal finger snaps, I baited the traps with peanut butter. Strategically placing them in the closet, along with peppermint-doused cotton balls, I then stuffed the carpet holes with steel wool.
It wasn’t too long before I heard a trap snap. “Take that!” I thought. Gingerly, I opened the closet door only to see another mouse take off running. Picking up that trap cost me dearly, but I did it.
I was not about to re-use that trap. I put the entire thing into a plastic bag and took it outside to the garbage bin.
One has to decide how much one’s mental health is worth.
The snapping continued—while I slept, while I entertained company the next day, while I watched a mouse run through my bedroom. While a friend reminded me that, “If you have one, you have seven.”
By Monday, I called my termite guy (it’s a Southern thing), who came to help, spraying foam in every possible crack.
Finally, after a few weeks of all-out war, an armistice of sorts ensued.
But I’m not stupid. I still open that door with extreme caution. It is highly doubtful that the mice will be back—or at least not all of them and not so long. However, it is not an impossible notion in an old house such as I have.
After all, it is their nature.
This is why I was not surprised that, with cold weather approaching, I began to see traces of their presence again. This time, I ordered the highly recommended “mouse house traps.” Looking at the price, I assumed three would do.
I was in a hurry to stop the scurry, so I didn’t read the fine print. After all, the traps looked quite large in the Amazon picture. Imagine my surprise when I carried the three boxes in from my front porch and opened them to find 36 traps. Which was a bit of an overkill. After all, I didn’t need to live in paranoid fear.
I returned 24.
I guess you could say that I’ve learned to fight back. Something that has come in handy when dealing with the enemy of my soul.
Trust me, some well-placed anger can be an effective tool against the one who comes to steal, kill, and destroy. His punches have made me wonder if I would ever be able to breathe again. He can rip loved ones, hopes, and dreams from our lives and paint a picture so bleak that recovery seems impossible.
Sometimes, the only thing we know to do is to slam the door and sit down.
Which isn’t a bad start.
But action has to be taken. We have to call out to (or text) someone who has been there before us. We have to determine to hold fast to the truths that have sent the enemy running countless times before.
God will complete what He has started (Philippians 1:6),
He is faithful (Lamentations 3:22-23; 1 Thessalonians 5:24),
He does heal (Psalm 147:3),
and He will help carry our burdens (Matthew 11:28-29).
Slowly, we strap our armor on (Ephesians 6:14), and by God’s grace, we do our part.
“Therefore, my beloved, as you have always obeyed, not as in my presence only, but now much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling; for it is God who works in you both to will and to do for His good pleasure.” Philippians 2:12-13, NKJV
As my mother used to say, sometimes you need “a little spit and vinegar.”
It’s tempting to close the door on what we want to hide, but that will not make it go away. Some won’t want to see or hear about what is behind that closed door. It’s not a pretty picture, and that’s all right. Find your people—the ones who will not only fight right alongside you but will kneel with you at the throne of grace.
Real heroes know what they can and what they can’t do. They know that there is only One true hero, and He, “The LORD, strong and mighty, the LORD, mighty in battle” (Psalm 24:8), promises to go before and behind you. He isn’t afraid of what is in your closet. So, go ahead,
open your closet, and do battle.
I love how you take a simple story, a real story, weave adventure, fun, laughter, ugh oh no!, perseverance and weave that into a lesson of God . Always prompts my heart
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You poor thing! First food poisoning and then an all out battle with mice! Great article. You are good at taking bad situations and turning them into a spiritual analogy. Thanks for sharing. ❤️
I loved this! Made me chuckle. I’ve been there with the mice thing. I absolutely loathe those critters! A good mouse is a dead mouse! And the your transition into spiritual aspects was well presented. Thanks for sharing. Dee
This has been the most entertaining and enriching story I have read all week.
– From a Publisher in training.
Angie, sometimes, the only thing left to do is laugh, right? Thank you for stopping in!