Dry Rot in the Soul…

I was hauling my boat to the lake to meet up with my family.  It was just me, pulling the boat up the interstate.  About an hour into the trip, I felt a jerk.  I look at my rear-view mirrors and saw my boat trailer leaning to the right.  Flat tire.

I should say shredded tire.  I pulled over to the emergency lane, put on my flashers, and got out to inspect the damage.  The tire had simply come apart.  I didn’t understand it.  I had checked the air pressure before I left and greased the bearings.  But these things happen.

Because of my recent knee surgery, I decided to call for assistance.  When the man said it would be an hour and half, I decided I could tough it out and change it myself.  This was not the smartest idea I had ever had.  But I got the trailer jacked up, the lug nuts loosened, and unbolted the spare.  Traffic flying by at 80 mph is motivation to work quickly and pray hard.  I had to dig out underneath the axle to fit the spare onto the hub.  Good thing I carry a shovel.

Once the tire was changed, I knew not to venture too far without a spare.  I Googled for a tire shop at the next exit (thank you, God, for smart phones), and picked up a new spare.  Back on the road.

I was about forty miles further down the road, when I felt the trailer jerk again.  I looked up and sure enough, another flat on the trailer.  On the right side again!  The spare, which had plenty of tread, had blown.  When I got the truck and trailer stopped, and ventured out to examine the tire, it was shredded, just like the first one.  Was the right side of my trailer cursed?

I Googled tire stores in the next little town, mindful it was twenty minutes till five.  I explained the situation, and the man said he could send someone right out and bring me another tire.  The service man arrived pretty quick, and he had the new spare, bought 40 miles ago, on the trailer in no time (every job is easy if you have the right tools).  Then he popped another new spare on the rim of the shredded tire. 

I knew this man knew more about tires than I did.  I asked him, “What made this tire shred like this?”  I figured whatever caused it, probably caused the last one too.  He smiled because this was not his first rodeo.  He said, “You see this a lot on boat trailers.  People don’t use their boat very much in the winter, then they take it out on a long haul.  When you don’t use it, dry rot sets in.  You probably didn’t notice the small cracks or the tread being brittle.  When a dry rot tire hits the road, it disintegrates like this, because of the pressure and the heat.  Your spare probably had dry rot too.”

His words made me wonder about dry rot of the soul.  Your soul is the sum of your life: your decisions, your thoughts, your feelings, your body, and your relationships.  I think dry rot of the soul happens when you don’t use your soul.  Being self-centered is the first sign of soul dry rot. 

I wonder how many Christians have soul dry rot.  If faith is something a person does not nurture or cultivate, but only calls on in a crisis, is that why people have a faith blow out?  Maybe their faith has not been used enough.  I do not know this for sure, but I think some people who lose their faith have let it sit, unused.  The compound that holds faith together has broken down, like a tire. 

I know going to church (or watching online these days) is not the same as having a relationship with God, but it is one small way to take your soul out for a spin.  Obeying nudges from the Holy Spirit to do acts of kindness, or to speak words of witness, or to speak for those who cannot speak can keep your faith fresh.  If you really want to keep your faith well exercised, try serving the least of these.

In these days, I’ve thought a lot about our nation.  We seem to be going through a national spasm, fed by fears of COVID, financial pressure, and an awaking to the racism that still exists in our country.  I remember 1968, which also felt like a spasm in our history.  These spasm years feel like – well, like a boat trailer jerking and swaying and telling you it is time to get into the emergency lane. 

A nation has a soul, just like a person.  Collectively we make decisions, share thoughts and feelings, and have relationships based on being Americans.  Our nation is a body that expresses its will through our government.  We don’t seem to care about truth or compassion anymore.  We assumed that our Judeo-Christian ethic could be taken for granted, that everyone would respect each other and make an effort to get along.  It’s not happening.  It takes effort to get along.  I think our national self-centeredness has caused dry rot to set in. 

Someone asked me the other day if I thought the turmoil of 2020 was a sign of the end times.  I wish I had thought to say, “I’m not sure, but it may be a sign of a dry rotted soul.”

Trust the Father’s Laugh …

I never cared for fishing. I liked catching, mind you. It’s fishing that is boring.

My stepfather loved to fish. It must have been a carryover from his childhood, when fishing was the only acceptable excuse for not being in the fields, planting, hoeing, or picking. Pop’s idea of a good day fishing was to get there before the sun came up and stay way past sundown. Many a time I was told to go to the front of the boat and hold a flashlight so Pop could navigate back to the landing. Those were long days on the water for a boy.

The only thrill of fishing was getting to drive the boat. When no other boats were around and there was nothing to run into, Pop would let me steer. Alan Jackson sang a song about this, with a line that said, “I was king of the ocean, when Daddy let me drive…” Still, steering the boat for five minutes out and five minutes on the way back was a small part of the day. Pop would usually pack some crackers and sardines (breakfast of champions), some Vienna sausage, and some Little Debbie snack cakes

When I was thirteen, I thought I was old enough to stay home instead fish. I told my parents this, and I was told I was going and that was that. I pleaded to bring a book. I was told there was no need for a book because I would be fishing. You can’t fish and read at the same time.

We left the house at six in the morning and were on the water by seven. Pop loved to fly fish. I was casting, getting hung up on stumps and cat tails. Pop caught two or three small ones, Momma had caught one and I had caught nothing. We had a Little Debbie break about 9:30, crackers and Vienna sausage at noon, and the fish still weren’t biting.

I had enough experience to know the only thing that would drive us off the lake was a thunderstorm. About 1:30 in the afternoon, I started to pray for rain. Reluctant teenage fishermen make for fervent prayer warriors. I bargained with God, telling him I would never covet my neighbor’s donkey (it was easy; our neighbor didn’t have a donkey). I promised God I would never force my servants to work on the Sabbath (also an easy give-away). I was working my way up to more extravagant promises when I saw a small black cloud in the distance.

We were fishing on Lake Arbuckle, right on the border of the Avon Park Bombing Range. My little slice of Florida is the thunderstorm capital of the world. In fifteen minutes, the wind was blowing hard and whitecaps were forming on the lake. Pop told me to pull up the anchor while he stowed the gear. Then he did the strangest thing. Pop told me to crank the boat and steer it to the landing.

I thought I mis-heard him. Me? Thirteen years old? Drive the boat to the landing in the face of a storm? Still, this was an opportunity too good to miss.

Ever tried to out-run a storm in a fifteen-foot boat with a 65-horsepower outboard motor? It’s not as easy as it sounds. I had to steer straight into the wind. The boat rose on each wave-crest and then slammed into the trough. The waves were getting higher, the wind was blowing stronger and raindrops the size of quarters were popping on the water, on the boat, and on our skin. You could see the rain sheets moving across the lake. God was answering my prayer and then some.

Despite being thirteen and bullet-proof, I was scared. It was one thing to steer the boat when the lake was calm; it was another thing to navigate through the storm. Surely, I thought, any minute Pop would come up and say, “Better let me drive.” But I never felt the tap on my shoulder. I began to calculate the odds of my reaching fourteen.

We slammed down into another trough and the rain shifted to a driving flood that stung. I heard something in the boat come loose. This would the moment Pop would come and take the wheel.

I looked behind me, and on the back-bench seat of the boat was my stepfather, his arm around my mother – laughing.

When I saw him laughing, I decided this storm wasn’t so bad after all. If my father was laughing, this was an adventure to enjoy, not a tragedy in the making.

We made it to the landing, loaded the boat, and went home soaked to the bone. But I will always remember the lesson of that day: When your Father is laughing, there is no need to fear the storm.

No matter what storm you face, your heavenly Father can be with you. You might even hear him laugh.