The Comma

One of the occupational hazards of being a preacher is what I call “the sermon syndrome.”  Often in the midst of some particular personal experience, I find myself saying “Hmmm, this would make a good sermon illustration.”  In fact, I have said that often enough now that even close friends and family members have taken to making the same observation.  “This might make a good sermon illustration,” they say.  And it is usually related to some awkward or embarrassing thing I am doing.

A case in point: Monday morning I needed to bring my motorcycle into Seattle to be worked on.  To do that, I had to load the bike into the back of my pickup.  I myself am physically unable to roll the bike up a long, steep ramp into the bed of the truck.  However, there is a little landscape ledge on my property where I can back up my truck, and then put a short, not too steep ramp there.  Then I can roll my motorcycle down a short slope, up the short ramp, and into the truck.  Usually.  And by that I mean it worked once before.

Now let me add another piece of information.  Whenever I am out by myself on the farm doing work that is even a little risky (like trying to move a ram from the pasture where the ewes- all his girlfriends by now- are, to the pen where the other crusty old ram is- that can get a bit dicey sometimes) I carry my cell phone in my pocket.  That way I can always call someone.  Up until Monday, I had never used the phone.  (The only other time I might have used it was last year during the seemingly unrisky chore of feeding my hens.  The door swung shut and the little hook somehow fell down right into the eye-bolt on the other side and I was locked in.  I did not have my phone with me that time.  I did eventually get out, as testified to by the fact that I am now writing this blog.  How I did that is a completely different story- but off this particular subject.  Ask me another time.)

So anyway I got the motorcycle rolling down the slope, and then rolling up the ramp, and I got the front wheel over the lip of the ramp and into the bed of the truck.  Then the bike stopped rolling.  I realized that in order to push the bike the rest of the way into the truck, I needed to step up into the bed of the truck.  But to do that, I needed to let go of the motorcycle.  I tried to put the kickstand down but the angle of the ramp prevented that.  And the lip of the ramp made it impossible for me to roll the bike back down and start over.  Someone stronger than me- even just a little stronger- probably wouldn’t have any trouble, but I could not move the motorcycle forward or backward.  I tried again to step into the bed of the truck but could not do so while keeping the motorcycle balanced.  There I stood- my motorcycle at about eye level, my arms stretched out a little higher than that- balancing the bike by holding the handle bars.  It was a very meditative position.  

A number of thoughts wandered across my mind.  Why did I try to do this all alone?  How long can I stand like this?  How much damage will be done to my motorcycle when I drop it?  Which way should I jump when I do?  Would any of my dogs have enough Lassie-like collie instincts to get help?  Did I remember to put my phone in my pocket?  Hmmm.  Which pocket?  Can I balance this motorcycle with one hand while I search through my pockets?

Turns out I could.  I found my phone in the third pocket I searched and called my next door neighbor.  She was home. 

“Uh, hi Michelle, how’s it going?” I said, trying to sound casual. 

“Great,” she said, “what’s up?” 

 “Uh, I’m a little hung up here with my motorcycle and I was wondering if you could come over and help me for a minute.” 

“Sure,” she said.  “Just let me run James over to school.” 

“Uh, o.k.” I said.  I’m pretty sure my voice was shaking at that point.

And we hung up.  More thoughts wandered through my mind.  How far is it to the school?  What if she stops for groceries?  Why didn’t I just tell her I needed her now?  Why is that so hard to say?  Why did I try to do this all alone?  How long can I stand like this?  How much damage will be done to my motorcycle when I drop it?  Which way should I jump when I do?   Would any of my dogs…

Then Michelle’s car came up my driveway, James in the back.  “I thought maybe if it just took a minute I could help you before we go to school.”  To her credit, she neither laughed, nor scolded, nor panicked.  She just came over, stood behind the bike and held it while I stepped into the truck, and together we loaded the bike.

“Thanks,” I said.

“I used to ride a motorcycle,” she said.  “They are heavy, aren’t they?”  And then she hopped in her car and was off. 

That’s when the sermon syndrome kicked in.  I just started laughing.  “This would make a good sermon illuustration” I said.