Dark Mysteries of the Universe
Illustration
Stories
Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth? Tell me, if you have understanding. (v. 4)
The outhouse on the farm where I grew up was beside the ash pile, at the end of a well-worn path, under a boxelder tree about fifty yards from the back door of the house. It was a two-seater – cold in winter, smelly and hot in summer. There was always a Sears and Roebuck catalogue on the floor in the corner, which served as both reading and wiping material.
I remember lingering long after my business was completed, on days when it wasn’t too cold or too hot, to peruse the wish book and to meditate on the vicissitudes of my young life. One day when I was feeling brave, I took a deep breath and peered down into the pit. What I saw there, in that reeking pile of family DNA, was more than I ever wanted to know about the dark mysteries of the universe. I never looked again.
I was six years old before we had an indoor bathroom in the farm house. And then the stool was between the pump and the shower, just past the wringer washing machine, behind a plastic curtain in the cement-floored basement. We were finally able to flush away the dark mysteries. But the store-bought tissue roll, while gentler and kinder, had no pictures and inspired no Christmas-morning wishes. I missed the cozy confines of the little privy under the boxelder tree.
You won’t find this in any respectable biblical commentary, but I think that’s the kind of place Jesus had in mind when he warned his followers not to be like the hypocrites who “… love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men. “But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father, which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.” – Matthew 6:5-6, King James translation
Besides the haymow in winter, or maybe the tractor seat in summer while raking hay, the outhouse in all seasons was, for this old farm kid, by far and away the best place to pray.
The outhouse on the farm where I grew up was beside the ash pile, at the end of a well-worn path, under a boxelder tree about fifty yards from the back door of the house. It was a two-seater – cold in winter, smelly and hot in summer. There was always a Sears and Roebuck catalogue on the floor in the corner, which served as both reading and wiping material.
I remember lingering long after my business was completed, on days when it wasn’t too cold or too hot, to peruse the wish book and to meditate on the vicissitudes of my young life. One day when I was feeling brave, I took a deep breath and peered down into the pit. What I saw there, in that reeking pile of family DNA, was more than I ever wanted to know about the dark mysteries of the universe. I never looked again.
I was six years old before we had an indoor bathroom in the farm house. And then the stool was between the pump and the shower, just past the wringer washing machine, behind a plastic curtain in the cement-floored basement. We were finally able to flush away the dark mysteries. But the store-bought tissue roll, while gentler and kinder, had no pictures and inspired no Christmas-morning wishes. I missed the cozy confines of the little privy under the boxelder tree.
You won’t find this in any respectable biblical commentary, but I think that’s the kind of place Jesus had in mind when he warned his followers not to be like the hypocrites who “… love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men. “But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father, which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.” – Matthew 6:5-6, King James translation
Besides the haymow in winter, or maybe the tractor seat in summer while raking hay, the outhouse in all seasons was, for this old farm kid, by far and away the best place to pray.
