On a bitterly cold morning in late November, my husband flew 1000+ miles straight north to Churchill, Manitoba to complete a large flooring job in the frozen regions of the world’s Polar Bear Capital.  

 I prayed as I drove home from the airport, visually feasting on the incandescent glory spread before me as the sun crept over the horizon, nearly blinding me with its brilliance. I prayed for my man and the people he would meet. I prayed they would see Jesus in him and that he would be given opportunities to tell of the Hope that lifts and fills and consumes. And I prayed for the children and me, knowing it would be a long week of solo parenting..

   We have a long-standing history of encountering septic problems when my husband is too far away to be of any earthly help and, true to form, the septic pump chose this most inopportune of times, the very first evening my husband was gone, to seize completely. Before I knew what had happened, we had a growing puddle of gray water backing up into the basement, soaking the carpet, and spreading ominously. 

Yelling instructions over my shoulder for no one to use water or flush toilets, I struggled into my heavy winter gear and hauled the backup pump out of its frozen habitat. Plunking it into the septic tank, I stretched the ungainly pipe out to the bush, switched the pump on, aaaand…. nothing.

The pipe that had supposedly been emptied was frozen solid. Consternation trumped confidence and I stared, galled by the “miles” of ominous black pipe. Unfortunately there was only one thing to be done, and no one to rescue me, and so I set to work with grim determination. 

-Find where ice had blocked water flow 

-Calculate the best point to begin

-Carry 5-gallon bucket after bucket after bucket of hot water from the kitchen

-Shake, rattle, and thump that pipe to break up the ice….

Hours later, after much praying and doing, it thawed. Whew! I collapsed into bed close to midnight, my eyes falling shut before I had time to register the fact that our bed was big and cold and empty….. only to be jolted awake a few short hours later by an unearthly screech that curled my toes even before they hit the floor.  Our 8-year-old daughter was on the floor screaming, writhing in pain, throwing up green stomach acid until there was nothing left save incessant dry heaving.  After a quick diagnostic overview, I was fairly confident we were dealing with an appendix attack. I tried a few home remedies, prayed over her, and began preparing for a middle of the night trip to the emergency room, when suddenly, inexplicably, her pain eased and within an hour she had fallen asleep again. 

Thank you, Jesus!

But it was time for this mama to get up.  So coffee it was, and gallons of it, thank you!  And Jesus, because I had the uncomfortable feeling that I might need both in overdoses before the day was over. 

I read through the book of Jonah that morning and was mesmerized by this controversial figure. He got so much wrong that sometimes we forget to note the times he got it right and responded well. True, Jonah tried to flee from God, despite knowing the words of Psalm 139. “Where shall I go from your Spirit? Or where shall I flee from you presence? If I ascend to heaven you are there. If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me.”

But God remembered Psalm 139. He sent a violent storm to remind Jonah of that which he had apparently chosen to forget. And Jonah, despite his foolishness, quickly and humbly acknowledged his sin. “I am a Hebrew and I fear the Lord. (For the men knew he was fleeing from the presence of the Lord, because he had told them.)”

Then he gave them a horrifying solution. “Throw me overboard.”

But most amazing of all, after three days and nights in the belly of a stinking whale, he prayed a prayer of thanksgiving. No asking for deliverance. No cursing himself for having gotten into his present predicament. No complaining about the awful stench. No mention of the thirst that must have nearly incapacitated him. Just humility and thankfulness.  Jonah worshipped in the unpleasant. The potentially deadly. The suffocating grossness. And as he worshipped, he thanked God for sending the whale instead of letting him drown. “Those who pay regard to vain idols, forsake their hope of steadfast love. But I, with the voice of thanksgiving, will sacrifice to you: what I have vowed, I will pay. Salvation belongs to the Lord!” 

I paused in my reading, awed by such worship in the face of so much discomfort.  All my ‘Jonah days’ faded into oblivion by comparison, and I repented for all the times I had been less than thankful in even these small trials. 

I had hardly closed my Bible when the day exploded with a crash of activity. The oldest man-child was out of sorts and unimpressed with this break in his chain of normalcy. 

There were speech and occupational therapists to call, as well as hunting down some wonder person with the needed skills to fix our septic pump.

There was the promised library visit with the children, because I don’t believe in breaking promises on the basis that I’m tired. There was school to do and gym rental to book for our homeschool group. Desirèe had an optometrist appointment and immediately following a rushed dinner, I flew off to piano lessons with the 2 middle children.

Finally, we were homeward bound at 8:30, dreaming of luxurious beds and a quiet house.. But the lovely man who came to fix the pump had brought his sweet wife and 4 little children along, so I made tea and fixed a snack for everyone instead of collapsing into my increasingly alluring bed. 

And I smiled because I remembered Jonah and the day everything went wrong for him.

My thoughts were interrupted by a commotion at the front door as my daughter burst into the house informing me that there was blood everywhere and she thinks the dog is hurt. Sure enough, great pools of red were congealing on the snow-encrusted front porch and down the steps. Our half-grown Black German Shepherd had indeed torn a huge gash into his front paw. He needed stitches but the vet wasn’t available at this hour, and how does one load a giant, bloody, German Shepherd into a minivan at 9:30 at night, anyway? 

I called for bandages, super glue, salve, and children enough to hold his head and legs while I dealt with the spurting blood. I found myself audibly thanking the Lord from the bottom of my heart that I had given in to my husband and children’s wheedling and allowed the oversized oaf to sleep on the rug inside our front door since puppyhood. My gratefulness continued as I thanked Him again that the dog was well trained in matters of staying on his rug and doing his business outside. 

“It’s been a Jonah day, Lord,” I prayed a few hours later, “And I can’t pretend I’m not glad it’s over, but thank you for grace where mine is nonexistent, and courage when mine left for Churchill. Thank you for clean children tucked into bed 3 hours after their bedtime. Thank you for……

“No, No, Noooooo!” 

And I dissolved into hysterical gales of laughter as I heard the unmistakable sound of the new septic pump dying a premature and untimely death just as I was prepared to drag my blood-stained, bedraggled self to the shower. 

 “Jonah days, Lord,” I muttered as I pulled on my winter boots and shoved my still bloody hands into dirty gloves. “I will give thanks even for the Jonah days, because You are good. Always. But for mercy’s sake! Could this one please end?”