It was the epitome of slapstick. Oh, how I wish I’d been watching rather than playing a starring role.

In the kitchen, Smalls edged away from Short Son, and the back of his thighs hit the 32 cup steel bowl we fill with water for our dog. It all happened at once. Smalls folded up like an umbrella and went in, the bowl tipping and icy water running over his body from neck to ankles. He screamed as if he’d been branded, and Mama’s mission became GET TO THE CHILD.

Now, the bowl wasn’t filled to capacity, but it turns out you only need 10 or so cups to create a slip-sliding obstacle course. I sprinted into the kitchen and my flip-flops hit the surface of the water. For a moment, I think I actually levitated–completely parallel to the floor–before my body slammed down on the linoleum. Utter pandemonium. Smalls cranked up the volume another ten decibels, now as desperate to get to me as I to him. Bean went into drama overkill, covering her face with her hands, convinced I was dying. Short Son stood over me shouting, “Can you HEAR me!  MOM, can you HEAR me!” And Giant calmly offered to help me up.

I held still, soaking and breathing. “I’m fine. Don’t touch me. Get the child.”

As soon as I stopped speaking, Boyfriend-Who-Is-My-Husband strolled in and chuckled. I heard, “Seriously don’t touch your mom. She needs a minute. Everybody grab towels.” BWIMH rescued Smalls from his watery nightmare and gazed down at me with eyes full of endearment (and amusement).

Eventually, he helped me to my feet and everything returned to its former dry state.

That was two days ago, and I’m not going to lie. I hurt. To the point that my pain is invading my speech. I’ll be talking and reach out to pick something up (multi-tasker that I am), and mid-sentence, I’m suddenly a soprano. And not even a nice one. It’s shrill.

But–because God is faithful to teach me in every circumstance–I’m learning from this.

I shared a conversation last night with a friend on the worship team. Wrapping up my anecdote, I said, “I feel like I’ve been in a wreck.”

“Well, at least you have a reason. My neck hurts and I don’t know why.” She reached up and massaged a sore spot.

“I’m sorry. I suppose we should stretch and all, but I’ve got to tell you, I’m not a fan of that.”

“No,” she said. “I’d rather remain inflexible.”

And there it was. My lesson in a perfect analogy. Thank you, Hannah. (And I know you were only talking about neck muscles). 🙂

At least in the physical realm, most people can acknowledge that stretching is a good thing. It keeps us pliable, ready to adjust to new circumstances without tearing our muscles. But what happens in those moments of sudden strain that require more than we non-stretchers have to give? We get hurt. We inflict pain on ourselves that we wouldn’t have to endure . . . if we were the type who appreciated being stretched.

I don’t know about you, but I’m becoming a fan of the stretch. Maybe next time the Lord asks me to try something new, I’ll warm up in prayer and get right to it. With a smile.