merrymuhsman

“There are three of them. THREE,” I said a bit over dramatically because no one was truly understanding the gravity of the situation.

My husband smiled. “They do tend to multiply.” He sorts through the mail sitting on the counter, discarding the junk into a pile, and picking up his bills, then setting them on the counter where he plugs in his phone.

We have a letter sorter. Nothing fancy, just a plastic letter sorter that sits on the desk. It’s meant to organize those letters for easy access. Instead, we just leave our letters in a pile on the counter until company comes over or the bills are due.

I digress.

“How did you manage to get the mail from God’s creatures?”

“Hmph,” I uttered. “Don’t make them sound nice.” Evil minion from hell seemed more appropriate.

“You didn’t see me? I saw you stop at the end of the field while I was getting the mail.”

He shook his head. “Nope. I was trying to adjust the sprayer.” He paused and leaned on the counter. “Why?” He gave me his best “dad” stare—the one that says basically, “what did you do?”

What did I do indeed? Well it started off with a song and something like an exorcism.

***

I strode down to the mailbox, needing a walk after my office job had me tied to the desk all day. And no one had gotten the mail.

This would need to be addressed at the dinner table tomorrow night. There are three vehicles that drive past the mailbox on their way up the driveway.

Three.

The air was heavy, like walking through a blanket of hot hair. There is nothing quite so humbling like humidity in Nebraska.

I opened the mailbox with some force, and backed away quickly. The box had been cleared of webs and the swollen egg sack in the back. Still I did not trust that the spider didn’t linger there.

Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the mail and flung it on the gravel road, like I was tossing holy water to scare out anything evil.

Nothing moved on the ground.

I kicked it with my foot and then she emerged. Scrambling from beneath two envelopes, a black spider scurried off the hot gravel into the church newsletter.

I yelped, scurried back and started to utter words that might make a sailor blush.

Of all the places to hide, the church newsletter was folded in half, multiple pages and plenty of folds to hide in.

I picked up the rest of the mail, looking for the other two spiders. I looked back into the box and saw two black spots cowering in the back. “As you should,” I snapped and slammed the lid shut.

Looking back at the ground and my current problem, I contemplated if the newsletter was worth picking up. There was an online version.

I looked down the road and saw my husband’s John Deere tractor and sprayer parked in the corner of the field. Could he see me? I’m sure he knows why I’m at the mailbox and pausing way too long.

I sighed. I have to overcome this. The mail is on the ground. I have two shoes and a heck of a stomp. I can do this.

I turned back to the newsletter. I couldn’t leave it on the ground because someone will stop, pick it up and bring it in the house, including the spider.

I will not relive that experience again! I sent a silent prayer into the clear, blue sky.

I remembered an old African tune that one of our member’s used to sing. Earnie had a voice that would shake the foundations of our church and awaken your soul. It was deep, beautiful and joyous. His voice now joins the angels in heaven.

Thinking of him gave me an idea.

I kicked the newsletter again, skidding it across the hot gravel. Nothing moved.

Ok we will do this the hard way.

I picked up the newsletter. With trembling hands, I ripped open the seal,  shook the pages and started to sing. I may not be able to sing like Earnie, but I can try.

“Get thee spider out

Get thee spider out

Get thee spider out of my church newsletter.”

The black shape scurried out of the pages and into the grass.

“Hallelujah!” I hollered, jumped in the air and fist bumped heaven.

I scooped up the newsletter and kept humming my new tune as I walked up the lane.

I am not naïve enough to think that spider won’t crawl back into the mailbox, but if she does, I’m armed with my song.

And maybe a can of Raid.