When the Rain Comes

         There I was, standing on a manure floor, questioning my decision to go on my first mission trip.  My church went to help build a camp for Indian children in the Minnesota sticks and there were lots of cherry jobs out there, like clearing trails, cutting down trees, or building a log cabin.  Unfortunately, everyone with last names G through J were sent off to shovel manure in a big barn with two gaping holes for doors.

         The winter had been too severe for the camp’s caretakers to do any more than feed the horses  and the result was a two foot thick carpet of manure that needed moved, by the truckload, to the wood line at the edge of the pasture.  I was a little hesitant, but when we stepped into the barn it smelled pleasantly of old hay.  It had this nice little loft that seemed to generate its own breeze where I was able to take the occasional break.  The work proved easier than anticipated, like digging in a garden that had been recently tilled and the manure turned out to be little more than dirt.  Spirits were high enough that we proudly named ourselves the Pooper Scooper Crew, told manure jokes, and were bonded through the power of poo.

         Then, on my third day of work as a manure mover, my pitchfork broke through the final earthy stratum and this heavy, wet aroma was set free from its foul tomb.  It was a kick your ass sort of smell and it was there to stay, slowly sapping our spirits, drying up our well of manure jokes, and taking up residence in our clothes and hair.  It turned out that while the top layers of manure were masquerading as dirt they were really spending their days super-heating the bottom layers to keep them as fresh as the day they plopped on out.  This was the dark side of composting and it was ugly indeed.  I finished out the day lusting after a shower I knew the camp's under-construction facilities couldn't provide, and went to bed thinking some very un-Christian thoughts about the prospect of returning to the shit mine.

         I woke to the sound of rain pounding on my little tent and thoughts of suspended work warmed up my body and soul, but I needed confirmation that the day would be devoted to sloth.  When I poked my head out of the tent my eyes were caught by the roof of the caretaker's house, or more accurately by how the roof’s gutterless edges shaped the rain into a solid unbroken sheet of water that tethered roof and Earth.  It was beautiful, like a shimmering wall of crystal, so far away and so delicate.

         I threw on my swim trunks, ran through the collection of haphazardly placed tents that guarded the path to the caretaker’s house, and shattered the wall of water with my face.  It was cold against my skin and I recoiled at first, but as it flowed over me it returned a sparkling wonder that the manure had done its best to destroy.  I danced and it didn't matter who saw.  Then I stood silently in the mud and was content.  As long as the rain came I knew I could endure anything.