On a recent morning I would describe as just about perfect – when it seems God and nature are on the same page, which as we all know isn’t every day – I was doing what my busy self always does, head down, focused on the task before me, toiling in the soil, determined to make the earth produce, as if I were Lord and Master of the Universe, when something or some noise made me lift my head from the ground and invited my gaze away from the mundane to a movement not all that far away. Two squirrels were playing tag – or that’s how my mind’s eye saw it. I found myself not so concerned about the work to be done, but caught up in the moment with these two furry tailed creatures, who seemed not to have any particular task to do for the day, other than playing tag in the school yard across from where I stood – the same schoolyard where I could remember playing tag when limbs were agile and when feet flew across the ground.
We had an old nun who taught us–they all were, it seemed–but her spirit compensated for any lack of strength in her body. Sister Bertha was her name and a black veil flowed from head to hip, with her face framed in a starched and pleated-coif that had to feel like the hood of a race car after a lap or two on the track. One hand held a cane to keep her balanced and the other hand was a flutter of movements as she played alongside us in the school yard as if her body ignored the news flash from her accumulated years. With Sister Bertha beside us, we first graders played tag and ring around the rosy and drop the hankie and red rover, all of which energized our young bodies still innocent of present day electronic games that exercise at most two thumbs. Times change, as do children’s games.
The pair of squirrels, not bothered by any need to check their emails, played tag as if they had no work to do, no pecans to be picked, no tomorrow to plan. Their speed would be the envy of two-legged creatures and could be accomplished by the likes of us only with a case of caffeine-laced drinks in our veins. They raced, darted, sidetracked, outmaneuvered, vaulted, sprang, and danced in something as finely choreographed as the finest the New York Ballet Company could do with a year’s practice. Their bodies were lithe, alive, grace-filled. And for a moment, I could see Adam and Eve in the Garden–before the apple stole the show–as they ran and raced down primordial paths not seen before or since, free of concerns, freely uninhibited, and free to live fully in the moment. I would like to think that first pair of free spirits were the founders of tag–or some archetype of the game–that only children who also have free spirits and bodies free of arthritis can play with similar spiritedness.
I remember hearing somebody say that squirrels are just rats with tails. It sounded like an insult to both species. Further, anybody vaguely acquainted with either knows rats prefer the dark, while squirrels are most active in the sunlight, like college students on Spring Break on the sands of Florida beaches. Also, squirrels have a Mediterranean diet, while rats have no food restrictions. In the end, squirrels are cuter than rats–a bushy tail is surely more desirable than a leathery long curled tail that seems to trail the body like an overdone bridal train and seems just as pointless.
It’s been several years ago, but I still remember it. I was walking up the sidewalk to the front door when I saw a squirrel on the highest point of the roof of the house. This was a two-storied house, so it was higher than I would have wanted to be. Maybe my movement startled the squirrel or maybe it was time to move to greener pastures because without any apparent deliberation or calculation–so unlike creatures with the added human cerebral mass–it bounced or ejected or popped off the roof with no google map on how to get where it was going or where it would land or where the ground was. I froze like Lot’s wife–terrified of the next moment and unable to take the next step. It was over in a nanosecond when the squirrel simply launched itself into space like some rocket and descended like some meteor to the earth and in the last moment and with all fours grabbed the last limb on the tree adjacent to the house and all was well. I would have liked in that moment to have read the mind of that dare devil acrobat in the air. Did that Evel Knievel wannabe say, “Oops, that was scary”? Or, was it more like, “Wow, that was great!” I’ll never know for sure which it was. I only know which I would have said.
But I also know I wish I had just a shot glass of the faith that that little creature with long toenails had as it leaped into the unknown. There simply was no way it knew it was guaranteed a safe landing. Just like there was no way it expected the last branch on the tree to be the one that would be where it needed to be to break the fall to the ground. Still, with faith that seemed much bigger than a mustard seed, this furry friend flung itself into the air with no parachute in sight–as far as I could see.
There is no mention of a squirrel in Scripture. At least by name. Even a kindergarten kid will tell you a pair made it onto the Ark. There is a prohibition somewhere against eating an animal that has paws instead of hooves, so we can assume that includes squirrels. Jesus never used squirrels in a parable. But then, he never used pecan trees either, which may explain why no squirrels get a footnote in the Bible. I like to think it is an unfortunate fact due to the fickleness of playing favorites rather than anything personal.
This much I know. The God whose spirit fills my lungs to capacity like a bicycle air pump is the same God who creates and cares for smaller critters and whose love finds a home in those with paws as well as those with hands. Nothing that moves upon the face of the earth is without divine providence or holy breath. Nothing.
There have been a time or two when I have uncovered a stash of pecans that surely were placed in that particular place in the ground or in that clay pot by a squirrel that shopped at Walmart and then put away the groceries. I try not to disturb the stash–it really isn’t mine. And I carry an unspoken hope that whichever squirrel put the pecans in the pantry remembers where they’re stored and isn’t like me who can’t remember for the world where I put things. I wouldn’t want that squirrel to know hunger. We humans already have hungers enough without bringing in all the other inhabitants of the planet.
I’m also one of those who thinks it’s an unfair advantage we humans have against a solitary squirrel who wants to cross the street. We have cross walks, safety officers at school crossings, traffic lights, right of way rules, and orange vests that can be spotted a mile away. What do squirrels have when they want to cross the street? Nothing but a furry tail that stands on high as if to say stop and fearless guts and fast feet with Adidas tennis shoes on them. That simply isn’t playing it fair–not that life is fair. But we could share the road with the disadvantaged with a little more consideration and with a little less foot on the accelerator.
Anyways, I simply would wish squirrels a safe skip across the street, a season full of pecans, trees enough to provide shade from the noonday sun, and ground sufficient to play a game of tag with a fellow furry friend. This does not seem all that much to ask for a mentor and a fellow traveler who provides us with a lesson or two on how to make it to the other side of the street.
— Jeremy Myers
Sunday Brunch 