Barefooted

The butterflies were swarming at our mountain house yesterday. They are especially fond of congregating in colorful little clumps on the dark grey gravel roads. I suppose it's to soak up the heat, but I'm really not sure.  They have a habit of waiting until the last moment to fly away when a car is approaching, and sometimes they pay for this habit dearly. Scattered among the quivering, fluttering flecks of life are the shredded remains of their companions.

One well-meaning woman halted before flattening an assembly of butterflies in her SUV, and persistently honked for several minutes before giving up and carefully continuing down the road.  Butterflies, it seems, are not much impressed by loud noises.

K.J., my 8-year-old brother, was desperately worried about the butterflies. Our back porch was soon transformed into a butterfly hospital, each patient having a name and distinct personality. He even offered them short-term employment as ferocious guards of his playfort. He claimed that two butterflies by the names of Bruce and Brutus were among the most intimidating, and he promoted them to the rank of commanding officers.

Last night as the sun was slipping behind the mountains, leaving a hazy blue light hanging among the hills and trees, I decided to go for a short walk down the gravel road.  K.J. wanted to come along.  I forgot my shoes.

Our conversation wandered from hunters and deer to snakes and the Garden of Eden.  K.J. pointed out little mounds in the gravel where he had buried the patients that didn't make it.  We took a moment to bury another crumpled little soul that we found on the way.  Some wild black-eyed susans were growing nearby, and K.J. picked one and gave it to me.  I put it in my hair.  

After a while K.J. found a pathway cut into the trees and wanted to see where it led.  I explained that I didn't have shoes on and didn't feel comfortable walking in the grass and bramble barefooted.  

"It's ok, Julia--I'll walk in front of you to make sure there's no snakes."

So we picked our way through the weeds and sticks, and K.J. asked,

"You know how Jesus is always telling people to fight battles?  Well, why didn't He just fight the battles Himself?"

It occurred to me that he must have been referring to the story of Gideon, which we talked about sometime last week. 

"Well, K.J., that's a very good question.  What do you think about that?  Why wouldn't Jesus just fight the battles Himself?"

"Well, it's not because He's too lazy...it's not because He's too tired...it's not because He's too bored...it's not because He's too weak...it's not because..."  

This went on for a while.  Finally I said, "Now K.J., could Jesus have easily won Gideon's battle for him?"  

"Yes!" was the enthusiastic response.  

"Could Gideon have won the battle with the 32,000 men that he started out with?"  

"Ummm..." K.J. puzzled.  

"Yes, probably.  But what did God tell Gideon?"

"He told him to send the men home because they were drinking the water like dogs!"

"Yes, they were.  But why did God tell him to do that?"

"Ummm..."

"Because God wants to use us even when we are weak, or even when there are not many of us.  That is what makes Him happy.  That is how He helps us know Him better."

My faltering answer seemed pathetic compared to the open-hearted, hungry question.  But I was thankful that he asked it.  My feet were sore and dirty.  But I was thankful for the little walk with K.J..