Of Mice and Men
Of Mice and Men
By Tim Holbrook, Oct 1, 2006
A gentle breeze rustled the oak and dogwood leaves, causing them to twist and nod their approval. Warm sun beamed down on robins and sparrows pecking at worms and seeds in the freshly-mown lawns. A sleepy dog raised his head from his front-porch vantage point, checked me out, and then returned to his mid-morning snooze. God was in heaven, and all was calm . . . except for me.
I was tense, red in the face, blood pressure elevated, muscles tight, and jaw clenched. For miles of winding country roads, I had followed a rattling, rusting car with no opportunity to pass. Its pace was approximately that of an arthritic turtle. Hills, valleys, curves, and corners had prevented me from crossing the forbidden double-yellow line and passing him. I was on my way home from attending a series of meetings in Michigan, and I hoped to arrive before dark. It didn’t look like I was going to make it.
A beautiful old country church crept into view-white steeple and red brick. A sign out front caught my attention: “He who angers you controls you.”
“Wow,” I thought to myself, flinching from the mental slap-in-the-face. “I’m allowing that guy to control me. Why should I do that? So what if he learned to drive from an inch-worm. I don’t have to let it bother me, do I? I’m making progress, and that’s what’s important.”
My mind went back to another country a dozen years ago.
It was an inky black night. The only light came from millions of stars winking in the heavens. An occasional yellow spark could be seen from a slowly burning cooking fire. Pigs snored in their mud beds. Dogs lay dozing at their masters’ feet. Water buffalo lay peacefully, eyes closed, as their jaws moved back and forth chewing their cuds. Chickens and roosters perched in nearby trees and thatched roofs, their heads tucked inside their feathers. Goats lay curled up together. All was peaceful and quiet and sleeping . . . except for me.
We had just finished building our house in Pandurukan. I was smug with pride in my amazing house-building skills. We had two nice rooms with concrete floors and a corrugated iron roof. But to make our house blend into the village huts better, I had thatched over the iron, making our house look more like a long hut. But what I didn’t know was that in thatching my iron roof, I had sent out a country-wide invitation calling all mice to come and live in the two-inch space between the roofing and the thatching.
The first night, I was awakened by the sound of tiny claws on tin; tick-tick, tick-tick-they scurried to the far end of the room, paused, and then seemed to remember something they’d left back at the other edge. Tick-tick, tick-tick.
Soon, that mouse was joined by another one who seemed to be in a race with him. Tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick sounded into the night air. I groaned and pulled a pillow over my head. Tick-tick, tick-tick-a pause-tick-tick, tick-tick back again.
I got up, threw back the mosquito net, and shouted up at them. Dawn mumbled something about crazy people who yell in the middle of the night and rolled over and went back to sleep. I listened. No ticks. I got back into bed, satisfied with my brilliance.
Tick-tick-tick-pause-tick-tick-tick. The racers were joined by yet another comrade, and they held relay races among our rafters. Something snapped inside my head. Grabbing up a nearby length of PVC pipe, I whacked the roof right under the scurrying feet. Visions of surprised mice, feet splayed out, whiskered faces registering shock as the roof suddenly catapulted them into the air, relieved some of my anger. “That showed them who’s boss around here,” I thought.
Tick-tick-tick-tick-pause-tick-tick-tick-tick. Apparently the mice had let their buddies in on what a grand time they were having at Six-Flags Pandurukan, and the crowd was growing. They raced around and around the roof, and I whacked and walloped in ever-widening circles as I scrambled over beds, boxes, barrels, and bookcases trying to keep up with their ticking feet.
It ended when I went down with a stubbed toe, and the mice deciding they’d had enough catapulting for one night and tick-ticked their way down to the far end of the roof and disappeared.
I crawled back into bed nursing my sore toe, still angry over my inability to inflict any permanent damage on the mice. Just as I was dozing off, a timid knock sounded at the door. Wearily, I pulled on some pants, made my way out to the door, and yanked it open.
There, to my surprise, was the village’s entire male population clustered around the door, armed with knives and clubs. They peered over my shoulder, searching the house.
“What’s wrong?” I asked in astonishment.
“Pastor, we heard the fighting going on in your house, and we came to help you. Where are the men who were beating you up? Did they leave already?”
Seeing my puzzlement, they explained, “We heard the sounds of someone hitting your roof. We figured someone was swinging a club and beating you up for your money.”
I hung my head in shame. As I explained what had caused the racket, their expressions turned from concern to wonder, and then they broke into uncontrolled laughter. Dawn got up and came to the door to see what the problem was. Soon, she, too, collapsed to the floor with laughter.
For years, I was known as the crazy pastor who whacked mice at night. I’m sure it didn’t do our church-planting effort any good, and it certainly wasn’t effective on our mice population. For eight years, we listened to ticking mice feet. Eventually, I almost-but never completely-managed to ignore the noise and sleep through it.
My thoughts returned to the present, and realized the rusty old car had turned off, and I was continuing his same slow pace with a wide-open road before me. As I sped up, I continued my reflections.
When I’m angry, I’m in effect telling myself that I’m in a situation I can’t control or help. My anger doesn’t do me any good, and it certainly doesn’t do anyone else any good. And to top it off, by letting myself get angry, I am turning what little self-control I have over to the object of my anger. Nothing I did could make the mice stop scurrying across my roof, and nothing I did could make that car go any faster. So the best course would have been for me to turn my anger over to God-Someone who is fully capable of stopping mice or speeding up cars if it’s in His will to do so. But perhaps His will is more often to let me develop some patience and endure trials without bitterness or the anger.
I think Proverbs states it best: “A fool gives full vent to his anger, but a wise man keeps himself under control.”
About the Holbrooks:
For twelve years, Tim and Dawn and their son John have served in the mission field. For eight years they worked to plant churches among the Alangan, an unreached indigenous people group on the island of Mindoro in the Philippines.
Tim graduated college with an English degree in 1981, and later acquired his airframe and power plant licenses as an aircraft mechanic. He then worked at a variety of jobs in the automotive and truck industries and in management positions in car dealerships and company vehicle fleets.
Dawn graduated with her B.S. degree in Nursing in 1982. Until she and Tim joined Adventist Frontier Missions, she worked as a critical care, emergency room, and ICU nurse at a variety of hospitals, and as a nursing instructor at a liberal arts college.
Tim and Dawn became convicted of the nearness of our Lord's return and wanted to become involved in reaching the lost. They began a church-planting project in the southern United States. With the Lord's blessing, four years of work yielded a successful, growing church that continues to flourish. Because of their growing interest in church planting, they joined Adventist Frontier Missions and began working among the Alangan.
Currently, their Alangan project is growing and has been handed over to the local mission. Six churches have been successfully planted, with indigenous leaders nurturing the believers. These churches are actively evangelizing their own people.
Tim gradually began shifting to supervisory work, during the transfer of their church-plants. The Holbrooks are now serving as Field Supervisors for AFM projects in Asia.
They have recently relocated to the Chattanooga, TN area for their son John to make the transfer from home-schooling to college. Tim is continuing as Field Supervisor for Asia, although this involves much traveling. They will return to living in Thailand within a few years.
By Tim Holbrook, Oct 1, 2006
A gentle breeze rustled the oak and dogwood leaves, causing them to twist and nod their approval. Warm sun beamed down on robins and sparrows pecking at worms and seeds in the freshly-mown lawns. A sleepy dog raised his head from his front-porch vantage point, checked me out, and then returned to his mid-morning snooze. God was in heaven, and all was calm . . . except for me.
I was tense, red in the face, blood pressure elevated, muscles tight, and jaw clenched. For miles of winding country roads, I had followed a rattling, rusting car with no opportunity to pass. Its pace was approximately that of an arthritic turtle. Hills, valleys, curves, and corners had prevented me from crossing the forbidden double-yellow line and passing him. I was on my way home from attending a series of meetings in Michigan, and I hoped to arrive before dark. It didn’t look like I was going to make it.
A beautiful old country church crept into view-white steeple and red brick. A sign out front caught my attention: “He who angers you controls you.”
“Wow,” I thought to myself, flinching from the mental slap-in-the-face. “I’m allowing that guy to control me. Why should I do that? So what if he learned to drive from an inch-worm. I don’t have to let it bother me, do I? I’m making progress, and that’s what’s important.”
My mind went back to another country a dozen years ago.
It was an inky black night. The only light came from millions of stars winking in the heavens. An occasional yellow spark could be seen from a slowly burning cooking fire. Pigs snored in their mud beds. Dogs lay dozing at their masters’ feet. Water buffalo lay peacefully, eyes closed, as their jaws moved back and forth chewing their cuds. Chickens and roosters perched in nearby trees and thatched roofs, their heads tucked inside their feathers. Goats lay curled up together. All was peaceful and quiet and sleeping . . . except for me.
We had just finished building our house in Pandurukan. I was smug with pride in my amazing house-building skills. We had two nice rooms with concrete floors and a corrugated iron roof. But to make our house blend into the village huts better, I had thatched over the iron, making our house look more like a long hut. But what I didn’t know was that in thatching my iron roof, I had sent out a country-wide invitation calling all mice to come and live in the two-inch space between the roofing and the thatching.
The first night, I was awakened by the sound of tiny claws on tin; tick-tick, tick-tick-they scurried to the far end of the room, paused, and then seemed to remember something they’d left back at the other edge. Tick-tick, tick-tick.
Soon, that mouse was joined by another one who seemed to be in a race with him. Tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick sounded into the night air. I groaned and pulled a pillow over my head. Tick-tick, tick-tick-a pause-tick-tick, tick-tick back again.
I got up, threw back the mosquito net, and shouted up at them. Dawn mumbled something about crazy people who yell in the middle of the night and rolled over and went back to sleep. I listened. No ticks. I got back into bed, satisfied with my brilliance.
Tick-tick-tick-pause-tick-tick-tick. The racers were joined by yet another comrade, and they held relay races among our rafters. Something snapped inside my head. Grabbing up a nearby length of PVC pipe, I whacked the roof right under the scurrying feet. Visions of surprised mice, feet splayed out, whiskered faces registering shock as the roof suddenly catapulted them into the air, relieved some of my anger. “That showed them who’s boss around here,” I thought.
Tick-tick-tick-tick-pause-tick-tick-tick-tick. Apparently the mice had let their buddies in on what a grand time they were having at Six-Flags Pandurukan, and the crowd was growing. They raced around and around the roof, and I whacked and walloped in ever-widening circles as I scrambled over beds, boxes, barrels, and bookcases trying to keep up with their ticking feet.
It ended when I went down with a stubbed toe, and the mice deciding they’d had enough catapulting for one night and tick-ticked their way down to the far end of the roof and disappeared.
I crawled back into bed nursing my sore toe, still angry over my inability to inflict any permanent damage on the mice. Just as I was dozing off, a timid knock sounded at the door. Wearily, I pulled on some pants, made my way out to the door, and yanked it open.
There, to my surprise, was the village’s entire male population clustered around the door, armed with knives and clubs. They peered over my shoulder, searching the house.
“What’s wrong?” I asked in astonishment.
“Pastor, we heard the fighting going on in your house, and we came to help you. Where are the men who were beating you up? Did they leave already?”
Seeing my puzzlement, they explained, “We heard the sounds of someone hitting your roof. We figured someone was swinging a club and beating you up for your money.”
I hung my head in shame. As I explained what had caused the racket, their expressions turned from concern to wonder, and then they broke into uncontrolled laughter. Dawn got up and came to the door to see what the problem was. Soon, she, too, collapsed to the floor with laughter.
For years, I was known as the crazy pastor who whacked mice at night. I’m sure it didn’t do our church-planting effort any good, and it certainly wasn’t effective on our mice population. For eight years, we listened to ticking mice feet. Eventually, I almost-but never completely-managed to ignore the noise and sleep through it.
My thoughts returned to the present, and realized the rusty old car had turned off, and I was continuing his same slow pace with a wide-open road before me. As I sped up, I continued my reflections.
When I’m angry, I’m in effect telling myself that I’m in a situation I can’t control or help. My anger doesn’t do me any good, and it certainly doesn’t do anyone else any good. And to top it off, by letting myself get angry, I am turning what little self-control I have over to the object of my anger. Nothing I did could make the mice stop scurrying across my roof, and nothing I did could make that car go any faster. So the best course would have been for me to turn my anger over to God-Someone who is fully capable of stopping mice or speeding up cars if it’s in His will to do so. But perhaps His will is more often to let me develop some patience and endure trials without bitterness or the anger.
I think Proverbs states it best: “A fool gives full vent to his anger, but a wise man keeps himself under control.”
About the Holbrooks:
For twelve years, Tim and Dawn and their son John have served in the mission field. For eight years they worked to plant churches among the Alangan, an unreached indigenous people group on the island of Mindoro in the Philippines.
Tim graduated college with an English degree in 1981, and later acquired his airframe and power plant licenses as an aircraft mechanic. He then worked at a variety of jobs in the automotive and truck industries and in management positions in car dealerships and company vehicle fleets.
Dawn graduated with her B.S. degree in Nursing in 1982. Until she and Tim joined Adventist Frontier Missions, she worked as a critical care, emergency room, and ICU nurse at a variety of hospitals, and as a nursing instructor at a liberal arts college.
Tim and Dawn became convicted of the nearness of our Lord's return and wanted to become involved in reaching the lost. They began a church-planting project in the southern United States. With the Lord's blessing, four years of work yielded a successful, growing church that continues to flourish. Because of their growing interest in church planting, they joined Adventist Frontier Missions and began working among the Alangan.
Currently, their Alangan project is growing and has been handed over to the local mission. Six churches have been successfully planted, with indigenous leaders nurturing the believers. These churches are actively evangelizing their own people.
Tim gradually began shifting to supervisory work, during the transfer of their church-plants. The Holbrooks are now serving as Field Supervisors for AFM projects in Asia.
They have recently relocated to the Chattanooga, TN area for their son John to make the transfer from home-schooling to college. Tim is continuing as Field Supervisor for Asia, although this involves much traveling. They will return to living in Thailand within a few years.