Mulling It Over

I come across a toad enjoying a leisurely hop through the rain. He tries his hardest not to be noticed, but it doesn’t work. I reach down and pick him up, give him a look. By all standards, he is one normal toad. 100% average. Not only that, he has no idea what the answer to my question is. In fact, he doesn’t even seem interested. So I put him down and hops away a little flustered, maybe a bit irritated, but on the whole completely fine if not a little ignorant. Utterly useless. At this point I’ve had to refill my pipe with tobacco. I, absent mindedly, my thoughts elsewhere, reload my thinking weapon, and apply the necessary resources to get it going again. After resuscitating my pipe, I decided to ask for an expert opinion. I sit down on my tailgate and ignore the rain intermittently falling on my head. My Heavenly Father tends to know the answers to these types of questions, so I audibly ask for His help. For Him to weigh in. I’m curious as to what He will say. I go

It’s raining. A gentle sort of storm. Something left behind after the furious thunder and lightning from earlier. The rain comes down at its leisure. Not too fast, not too slow. Measured and consistent. Being that it’s South Mississippi it’s also muggy. Hazy. Not the typical December you’d probably imagine. The kind of night where you feel hot, cold, and clammy all at the same time. Not the typical December for most, no. But for home, it’s exactly what I’d expect. Nice time to think, eh? I’m in the carport. I’ve flipped down the tailgate to my truck, preparing. It’s late. Past midnight maybe. Deep, dark night both behind and forward. The rain drips down. Barefoot, I move around the damp carport getting everything ready. Sometimes I have to prepare myself for a good old fashion ponder. I have many tools I use when I need to think. Sometimes it’s this, my laptop. Sometimes it’s my discus. Talking to people. Fidgeting and twirling a rock I picked up from Botswana in my ha