Messes

Circumstances had prevented our taking the dog for his early walk the last few days. Pent-up energy was rapidly accumulating, and we caught that certain glint in his eye … the storm warning of an inner wolverine about to be unleashed.

So, on a morning still vaguely cool from rains the night before, I took him for the long-delayed stroll. Or, more accurately, as dog owners know, he took me. At a pace considerably brisker than the one I’d had in mind.

Imagine a teenager kept off social media for a week. Archie hurled himself down the sidewalk, jamming his nose into every bush, flattening himself against every lawn, and absorbing every possible portent from whatever last stained the passing light poles, fence posts, and hydrants.

Despite his natural inclination to bark at anyone he meets (we’ve been working on this), Archie was too preoccupied with his frantic sniffing to give more than passing notice to other pedestrians. But we turned a corner, and surprised a cheerful older woman, humming happily to herself as she watered her flowers. Archie, caught off guard, reverted to instinct and gave her a veritable cannon’s roar of indignation.

She laughed good-naturedly and moved as though to pet him, but he wasn’t having it – places to go, things to do. Meanwhile, several backyards’ worth of dogs on both sides of the street erupted in outrages of their own, and the morning stillness was shattered by the collective canine din.

Archie, his work accomplished, hurried on. I paused to apologize to the sweet lady, trying to be heard over the general bedlam. By the time I turned, the wolverine at the end of the leash had “been to see a man about a horse” (as my wife’s grandfather used to say) in the next yard … a flawlessly manicure carpet of green now marred by a little mound of manure.

I had forgotten to bring a bag for this possibility. Worse yet, the owner of the home was just coming ‘round the rear bumper of his car in the driveway, the better to see for himself Archie’s casual contribution to his well-mown horticulture.

I began to apologize, promising to return shortly to clean up the mess. He waved me off with a great smile. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, and clearly meant it. “Got three dogs of my own. I do this all day long.” He laughed and headed for what I presumed was a shovel in the garage.

I thanked him, Archie gave a curt nod of approval, and we plunged along toward the next light pole.

It was a gracious gesture, gracefully proffered, and it put me in mind of a story I once read about former U.S. President Gerald Ford. His White House was hosting an especially prestigious dinner – a white-tie-and-tails affair for the crème de crème of Washington society and a slew of high-profile dignitaries. The president was still shaking hands in the receiving line when somehow, from the family quarters, his golden retriever, Liberty, broke loose and came stampeding downstairs into the middle of things.

And there, startled perhaps at the size and mix of the gathering, Liberty proceeded to let loose her own deposit, right in the middle of the ballroom floor.

A butler, mortified, scurried over to clean up the mess. President Ford stepped forward, took the paper towels and cleanser from his hands, and waved him away. He got down on his hands and knees and mopped things up himself.

“No man,” he said, rising back to his feet, “should have to clean up after another man’s dog.”

Mr. Ford is often dismissed by historians as one of our more mediocre presidents. But I like the image of Americans that he demonstrated for a roomful of elites that evening.

It wasn’t the last mess he cleaned up. He pardoned Richard Nixon, after the latter’s resignation from the presidency, in a decision widely berated at the time. He described the president’s role in the Watergate scandal as "a tragedy in which we all have played a part. It could go on and on and on, or someone must write the end to it. I have concluded that only I can do that, and if I can, I must." Sometimes, a man may choose to clean up another man’s mess.

It would be at least as controversial – and perhaps, eventually, as healing – if our current president were to choose to make some kind of statement, or take some kind of action, to forgive what so many seem to regard (rightly or wrongly) as the excesses of the last one.

It would also be helpful if any of the leaders of either party were to move seriously to address the growing array of messes engulfing our nation. But I honestly believe many of them are enjoying these messes. They’ve come to thrive on the growing chaos – to delight in the deepening disarray. They certainly enjoy casting blame.

And they’re not the kind to get down on their knees.

A storm hurtled threw our side of town last night. Many from our congregation were interrupted, amid their Sunday morning preparations, by a text from some friends of mine, warning that a series of light poles had blown down along the main thoroughfare running in front of our church. The street was now blocked off, both ways, while workers struggled to restore power to the area.

My friends thoughtfully offered some directions for winding through the backstreets of the neighborhood behind the church, so people could find their way to services on time.

Obviously, they didn’t do anything to contribute to the big mess along 35th Avenue. But the lights were out, the path was blocked, and they knew a lot of folks would be trying to find their way. They did what they could to help.

In this darkening world, amid so many lost and wandering souls, may God bless those willing to do what they can to clear a path and light the way. To clean up their own messes. And, in the spirit of God Himself, to graciously clean up the messes of others.