Hickory Dickory Rock
by Tracy Nunes

Hickory dickory rock,
The mouse ran up the clock.
The clock struck one,
"Hey! You're no fun!"
Hickory dickory rock.

"I've lost my funny bone. Have you seen it?" I asked the women in the mirror. She didn't answer.

"You'd think you're a hundred years old!" I accused, and then demanded, "Better call Willard Scott!" There, now that was funny.

Where is my funny bone anyway? Did I misplace it? Is it buried, waiting to be found again, like that old cow bone I found in the garden yesterday?

I knew it was special when I found it and knew exactly what I would do with it. My four year old grandson fancies himself an archeologist. That old bone would be well received for his collection and he'd be especially impressed that it was a specimen that Grandma had found on her "expedition."

I'd lifted shovelful after shovelful of dirt and a strange looking rock caught my eye. There was something unusual about it. It had a different hue and an odd shape. It was caked in mud and buried amidst rocks and dirt; hardly recognizable as having been a living thing.

Picking it up, I wiped off the wet, caked mud and smiled. This was a treasure my grandson would love! I pushed my finger through what was formerly the marrow of the bone but was now filled with earth and debris. This bone, once part of a living, breathing animal, then dead and buried, would now bring joy to a little boy who dreams about digging up dinosaurs. I took it in the house, cleaned it, soaked it and then cleaned it some more.

"My marrow ain't what it used to be, okay?" I said later to that lady in the mirror. We have an ongoing relationship but she doesn't hold up her end of it very well.

Lately, I feel much more like that bone before discovery: buried, mud caked, crusty, and humorless.

But, the Gardener's at work lifting shovelful after shovelful and unearthing the weight upon me. He's intrigued by my different hue and my odd shape. He likes that I'm unusual. He's wiping off the debris, putting His fingers through my marrow and pushing out the muck, then soaking me in cleansing waters and repurposing me for joy.

Hickory dickory rock,
The mouse ran up the clock.
The clock struck two,
"I'm done being blue!"
Hickory dickory rock.

I'm resurfacing near the half-Century mark with a spiritual kick in my step and a laugh in my pen. Well, at least that's the plan anyway. I think I'll wait for the actual, instead of imagined, arrival of my Centennial to be buried again. But, just in case, when I have my upcoming shoulder surgery I'm going to tell the doctor to implant a funny bone while he's in there.

"Do you think I can request that the donor bone be from a comedienne?" I ask.

That mirror ladyshe doesn't answer. She's not very funny.

Hickory dickory rock,
The mouse ran up the clock.
The clock struck three,
"Amen! I'm free!"
Hickory dickory rock.

Tracy grew up in Hawaii but now resides in Tennessee with Richard, her husband of 32 years.  They have two daughters and six grandchildren.  Writing came after homeschooling her girls and a career in real estate management. She doesn't claim to have all the answers but she knows the One who does.

Article Source: http://www.faithwriters.com


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