March Mud

God is speaking to me, this week, about simple things. Basics. Everyday things that I may overlook, might not see, may even view as a curse and not a blessing.

Like mud.

Tracks and clumps and footprints that wind through the porch, across the kitchen, and off to who-knows-where. Now the boys know that they are to remove their boots at the door. And the footprints are solid, so I can pretty much discern the culprit. But for the past two days, the footprints have been as present as the pattern on the rug. Mighty Mite (my vacuum) has become my best friend. And if the tracks continue, she’ll become the boys’ best friend today, too.

As frustrating as I find March mud to be, I was captivated, yesterday, by the boys at play. It was the season’s first warm day, and the boys were free, at long last. Tearing through the yard. Hanging from the trees. Poking at the ground with sticks. Playing in the mud. Boy stuff. Crazy, dirty, I’m-Wild-And-Free boy play.

And it was precious.

I’m still not good with the tracks through the house. But I was challenged, as I watched my boys play, to see the blessing in the footprints. They tell me that little boys still live here. That the house is rich with life and energy and movement and sound. That there are tender hearts and lively spirits.

Made me grateful. The tracks won’t be here forever. Neither will the boys. Guess there can be blessings in unexpected places.

Even in March mud.

(The pic is from last summer. Too muddy for even the tubby…)