One Sunday a couple of months ago I raced down the road only to find the gate closed across this bridge. I’d forgotten about my brother in-law’s sheep. I hadn’t planned on having to stop, open the gate, drive across the bridge, stop, and close the gate. I would be walking into church late again. The road in this picture is dry, but on that Sunday the weather was between rain showers.

I picked my way from the car to the gate carefully avoiding the puddles. Even then I pulled up my ankle-skimming skirt as I tip-toed back with the gate in my other hand. I didn’t want muddy drops of water to splash on my navy skirt. This whole process reminded me of a Sunday six years ago shortly after we built our house, but before it had thawed enough to lay road base from our house to the paved road.

At the time we owned a four-wheel drive Tahoe and a two-wheel drive Bonneville. We kept the Bonneville–the car my husband drove to and from work–parked just inside our gate off the paved road. It was very early spring and the car couldn’t make it through the mud to our house. With four-wheel drive, the Tahoe could make the trek if I kept it out of the ruts that were deep enough to swallow a tire.

My husband had early morning Sunday meetings. Naive girl that I was, I told him to take the Tahoe and the children and I would walk the half mile to the Bonneville and drive it to church. After outfitting us all with winter boots, I slung a backpack filled with our Sunday shoes over my shoulder and we started on our way. I watched my oldest slowly pick her way around the deeper muddy goop.

Then I turned my attention to my three-year-old. Every step landed her in mud over the tops of her boots. I used sagebrush and what little snow I could find to wipe the mud off her boots before trying to balance her on my nonexistent hip. I was seven months pregnant at the time. We proceeded cautiously and I tried to guide my second child around the muck.

We arrived at the car and I exchanged everyone’s boots for Sunday shoes. At church we all tumbled out of the car, and to my horror I discovered  we all had mud somewhere on our clothes. My son’s pants looked like he’d smeared a muddy rag down both pant legs–and that was just the front. There was no going back to the house for a change of clothing. That would only replicate the current results.

While using a wet paper towel in the church’s restroom to clean up our muddy clothes, I realized that the pioneers must have always had muddy clothes in the spring and fall and whenever it rained. It would have been unavoidable.

As I looped the chain into place on the fence, a feeling of gratitude washed over me. Road base is a blessing. It may not be paved road but it sure beats ruts and mud. And it’s not bad for running either.