We’ve been enjoying three of our grandsons while their parents are away, celebrating their anniversary with a trip to Colorado.  Staying in their home and keeping up with young children has reminded me of what my life used to be like about 25 years ago or so.  I remember one July day back then.  I wrote about it later and it was published by The Minister’s Family magazine.   I thought you might enjoy reading it – so here it is for my special Sunday message.

 The Giant Rat Parade

 “Mom, there’s a giant rat in the garbage can!” Five-year-old Paul stood in the back doorway, still clutching the bag of trash I had sent him to throw away.

“We’ll deal with imaginary monsters later,” I said. “We’ll never make it to Sunday School on time at this rate.”

“But there is a giant rat. Come and see!” With a sigh of impatience, I followed him out the back door and lifted the lid from the garbage can.  A giant rat looked up at me from the bottom of the can. It was the size of a half-grown cat.  I clapped the lid back on again and dashed for the phone.

“You have to come home right now!” I shouted as soon as my husband Paul answered the church phone. “There’s a giant rat in our garbage can!”

“You’ll have to take care of it,” he said with inhuman callousness. “The air conditioner is out and I don’t have much time to get it going before the services start.”

“Why don’t you call Brother Myers? He’s the deacon in charge of maintenance.”

“I know.” Paul sounded harassed. “I called, but he doesn’t know how soon he can get here. I’ll have to try to get it going myself.”

“But what about the rat?”

“Just put the lid on the can and I’ll take care of it later.”

“But it’s hot out there. It’ll smother in the trash can or die of thirst before you can take care of it. Even a rat shouldn’t suffer a death like that.”

“Then turn it loose.”

“And have it get in the house? Something has to be done about it now!”

“Then you’ll have to do it,” he snapped. “I’ve got my hands full here.”

That’s the worst thing about being married to a pastor, I thought as I slammed the receiver down. There’s always a church need that comes before mine. I might as well be a single mother.  All right, I thought, I have to get rid of the rat myself, so that’s what I’ll do. If I get rabies, it will serve him right.

I stomped back out the back door and jerked the lid off the can. The rat was still there. It looked up at me with it’s beady black eyes. It didn’t look quite so revolting — kind of furry, actually. Then it moved slightly and switched it’s slimy rat tail.  I slammed the lid back on it disgust.  What on earth was I going to do with the horrible thing?

Suddenly I had a brilliant idea. What do you with unwanted animals? You call animal control. So I called them.

“I need someone to come right away, “I said in my most assertive tone.  “There’s a giant rat in my trash can.”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am but this is Sunday — and the Fourth of July. We don’t have an officer on duty. We can only send someone out if it’s an emergency”

I was already mad and his tone of casual unconcern made me boil over. “Then send him out. This is an emergency!”

“Has the rat bitten anyone?”

“Not yet–but I have several small children. If that rat gets out and bites one of them, the world will hear about this phone call. I’m sure it has rabies or something. It look unnatural, sitting there so still.”

Evidently I convinced him, because he promised to contact the officer on call.

I rushed the children into their Sunday clothes, peeking into the trash can at regular intervals. The rat was still there.

The animal control officer arrived in record time, but he did not look happy. It was plain that he didn’t appreciate being awakened early on his day off to come on a wild goose — er, rat chase.

“I don’t know what you expect me to do,” he grumbled. “We’re not equipped for catching rats. If there is a rat in the trash can, all I can do it turn it loose.”

“There certainly is a rat in the rash can — a huge one.  And you’d better not even think of turning it loose. What if it got into my house?”

The made a reply under his breath that I did not ask him to repeat.

By then the neighborhood kids were gathering to see what was going on. Also, Mrs. Lloyd from down the street showed up in a bathrobe and curlers assuming the animal control had come to pick up the stray dog she had kept in her yard for the last week. She was irate when the man replied that he was there only on a emergency call to chase a stupid rat. He wasn’t picking up any dog. She would have to wait until the next week.

“I’ve waiting a week already!” she shrieked.  “Since you’re here, there’s no reason why you can’t take the dog, too.”

I led the way to the trash can in the backyard, with the sullen animal control officer stomping grumpily behind me. Mrs. Lloyd was right behind him, giving him her opinion of the city’s animal control system. Seven or eight neighborhood kids — not counting my own four — filed into the backyard after them.

“There it is,” I said, lifting the lid with a flourish. “Is that or is that not the biggest rat you have ever seen?”

Heads bonked as too many people bent over the trash can at the same time. Then, to our shock and horror, the man reached into the can and pulled that giant rat out by the tail.

“Lady,” he said, dangling the creature upside down in the air. “This ain’t no rat.  This is just a little old ‘possum.  A ‘possum won’t hurt nobody.”

As he said those fateful words, the opossum curled up like a yo-yo- on a string and bit the man on his hand. He dropped it and the opossum was off. The officer grabbed his net and was after it in a flash. Mrs. Lloyd was right  behind him, still wagging her finger and giving him “what-for” about that he dog he wouldn’t pick up. The neighborhood kids — by now numbering over a dozen —  were hot on his heels, and I, with the baby on my hip and my three-year-old clinging to my skirt-tail, brought up the rear.

The ‘possum ducked around the house and headed straight down the middle of Thirty-Ninth Terrace — with the whole entourage following like a weird Fourth of July parade.  At the end of the cul-de-sac was a busy street. The opossum evidently decided not to risk the traffic and made a U-turn. The parade, by now consisting of all the neighborhood kids and several more adults, became a colossal dog pile as the front of the parade turned and ran over the rearguard. With Olympic spirit, everyone was back on his feet and the parade streamed back down Thirty-Ninth Terrace, the opossum still leading the pack, followed by the animal control officer and the neighbors, with the baby, the three-year-old, and me still bringing up the rear. Bu now all the neighbors who weren’t in the parade were watching from their front porches. Some were cheering. I don’t know who they were rooting for – the opossum, the animal control officer, or possibly even Mrs. Lloyd.

At the end of the street the officer made a lucky swipe with his net and scooped up the exhausted animal.

The exercise seemed to have been good for the man. He no longer looked glum and grouchy. “Those ‘possums can be mean, and they do carry rabies sometimes, he graciously told me. “It’s a good thing you called me.”

The neighbors were loud in their congratulations. That made him feel so good that he even took Mrs. Lloyd’s stray dog with him as he left.

By then we were woefully behind our Sunday morning schedule, and it took another race to get the Brown crew into the car and to the church  — barely on time for Sunday School.  We entered the building at the same time the Myers family did.

“Sorry I couldn’t get here earlier to help with the air conditioning problem,” Brother Myers said as he shook Paul’s hand. “I had to help the wife get the baby ready. You know how it is when you have kids.”

Paul glanced down at the two-year-old who had required both parents to get him ready for church, and looked at our crew of four — all under seven years of age. He didn’t say a word, but the smile he gave me as he lifted the baby from my arms made me ashamed of the angry thoughts I had harbored earlier.

After all, the Lord had called me to be a helpmeet to this dedicated pastor-husband of mine. Some pastors might require helpmeets who could speak eloquently or entertain graciously or sing beautiful, uplifting songs.  I could do none of those things, but my particular husband needed most what I could do. He needed someone to be dependable, someone who could carry on without him always being there to oversee things. He needed a wife who could take care of unimportant details and give him space so that he could take care of the pressing matters of preaching and teaching and leading a flock. That’s something I could give him — a job I could do well. I was filled with remorse that I had done it so grudgingly that day.

“What happened with the rat?” Paul asked.

“I took care of it,” I replied with a smile. “No problem.”