Somebody growled a modest complaint:
"C'est assez, bein? Tu ne l'attraperas pas!"
The son of the hay and feed dealer said nothing. He bent over the wheel with his eyes popping at the road, and the white tail in front of us kept darting away from the wheels of the car, zig-zagging from the high bank on one side to the ditch on the other.
And then we came over the hill. The darkness and emptiness of the valley was before us. The road began to descend.
The complaints in the back seat increased, became a chorus. But the driver stepped on the gas even harder. The car careened wildly across the road; we had nearly caught the rabbit. But not quite. He was out there ahead of us again.
"We'll get him on the hill," exclaimed the driver. "Rabbits can't run down-hill, their hind legs are too long."
The rabbit ahead of us was doing a fine job of running down-hill, just about five feet ahead of our front wheels.
Then somebody began to yell: "Lout out, look out!"
We were coming to a fork in the road. The main road went on to the left, and an older road sloped off at a steeper incline to the right. In between them was a wall. And the rabbit headed straight for the wall.
"Stop! Stop!" we implored. Nobody could tell which way the rabbit was going to go and the wall was flying straight at us.
"Hold on!" somebody shouted.
The car gave a wild lurch, and if there had been any room in the back we would all have fallen on the floor. But we were not dead. The car was still on the main road, roaring down into the valley and, to our immense relief, there was no rabbit out there in the lights.
"Did you catch him?" I asked hopefully. "Maybe you caught him back there?"
"Oh, no," replied the driver sadly, "he took the other road."
It's a funny little scene--young Merton trapped in a speeding car, hurtling down a mountainside in pursuit of a panicked hare. It's a moment when the adult Merton, I'm sure, would say that God was watching out for him and his friends.
Today is February 29. Leap day. Twenty-four hours that comes once every four years. I have always thought of this day as a gift--extra time to do something different and unique and surprising. Taking a leap of faith, so to speak. Dipping your toes into a pool of water about which you know nothing--not its currents or depths of inhabitants. Taking a chance.
So what leap did I make today? I planned a family night of musical theater. Last night, I attended a performance of Matilda at the university theater. Tonight, I returned for an encore with my wife and kids. Went out in the afternoon and bought the tickets. Arranged a puppy sitter. Lost that puppy sitter, and acquired another.
Now, most of you are probably saying, "Well, that's not much of a leap!" Yes, I love theater. Yes, I've taken my kids to see musicals before, professional and community productions. The play wasn't the actual leap, The leap was stepping outside of my normal Saturday routine--cleaning the house, playing the organ for church, watching a little PBS at night (still a fan of The Lawrence Welk Show). I decided that my family needed to do something together, and I arranged it.
I think too many people think that their leaps on Leap Day need to be extreme. Jumping out of an airplane. Snorkeling with jellyfish and sharks. Getting up on a stage naked with a ukelele and singing "Tiptoe Through the Tulips." That kind of thing. For me, a creature of habit, stepping outside of my normal routine is quite a leap, especially if it's fairly spontaneous.
Spontaneity can cause me a great deal of anxiety, like hurtling down a mountainside in an out-of-control car. I like my days planned out. My first trip to the theater this weekend was on my calendar for over a month. I knew it was coming. I was prepared for it. This evening's trip was less than 24 hours in the making. Pretty wild for me.
And now, because of this family excursion, my daughter and son have decided to audition for a production of The Sound of Music. They already picked the day they were going to try out. They're going to work together this week to pick out songs to sing. They're taking a leap. Stepping out of their comfort zones. (Really stepping out. Both of my kids suffer from social anxiety to varying degrees.) I'm so proud of them.
I think that's a pretty good Leap Day. A spontaneous night out with my family, and my kids deciding to step out and try something completely new. For my son, that's not just a leap. It's like jumping out of an airplane without a parachute.
Saint Marty is going to leap into bed now for a good night's sleep.
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