How many times have you been faced with one of those vexing, inescapable situations that looms over you like a black cloud? A major test, a crisis at work, a personal conflict? I seem to encounter those on a weekly basis. I should know better than to worry; time and again the Lord has shown me just how adequate He is for handling anything that is too big for me alone. But whenever I am especially challenged, all I have to do is remember the scorpion underfoot. This is what happened:

 In 1985, when my husband and I moved to a new house in a small town in Oklahoma, we had an infant and a four-year-old child. My husband traveled frequently in his new job, so most of the unpacking was left to me. It was midsummer, hitting triple-digit temperatures every day. One evening, after a full day of cleaning and arranging, I walked into the dim kitchen. Right before I turned on the light, a movement caught my eye. Something had climbed out of my baby's diaper bag and landed on the kitchen counter.

 The instant I turned on the light, I was staring at a real, live, three-inch-long scorpion making its way across the countertop at an unhurried, stately pace. I freaked out. Since my husband was not home, I had to find some way to dispose of it myself. I managed to pick it up with a pair of kitchen tongs (while it lashed with its barbed tail), shake it down the disposal, and flip the switch. The grinding was comforting to hear, but the very next day I called a pest control company.

 Their representative came out and sprayed, but a few days later I found another scorpion in the family room. By this time I was paranoid, scouring every room before I put my baby down on his blanket and refusing to let my four-year-old run barefoot in the house. I did have the good sense to pray, "Lord, please don't let anyone here get stung by one of these things."

 While this was going on, with my husband still out of town, I was wrestling with one of those dark-cloud problems at our church. The situation plagued me to no end--I saw no way to resolve it, no light at the end of the tunnel. It was beginning to eat me alive.

 This went on for a few tense weeks. Then early one morning the doorbell rang. I was dressed except for shoes and socks, so I went to the door barefoot. In the tile foyer, right before I got to the door, I stepped on something. In my curiosity to know who was at my door so early, I didn't stop to look at what was on the floor.

 The cable guy at the door was looking for an unnumbered house down the street. After I had pointed out the correct house and closed the door, it dawned on me to find out what I had stepped on. I lifted my foot and gazed at the crushed remains of a scorpion clinging to my heel. It never had the chance to sting me.

 Two thoughts sprang simultaneously into my mind: first was the Scripture that says, "the God of peace will soon crush Satan under your feet." (Rom. 16:20, RSV) Second, I heard the Lord say (inaudibly), "That's how I'm going to take care of this problem at church that's vexing you so."

 Within a few days, I discovered that the scorpions were coming up through the drain in the kitchen sink. To keep them out of the house, all I had to do was keep the drain stopped at night. No one in our house was ever stung.

 I would love to tell you how the Lord resolved the big problem in our church, the one I was losing sleep over, but--I don't remember what it was. He took care of it so thoroughly that I soon forgot all about it. I never did anything to resolve it, and I can't for the life of me remember why it was so daunting. But I never will forget the sight of scorpion guts plastered across the bottom of my foot.

©Robin Hardy 2002

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