I Killed Stuart Little.

I KILLED STUART LITTLE THE OTHER DAY. Well, ‘I’ didn’t—the peanut-butter smeared trap did. But, as I opened the pantry and swept it out with a broom, I couldn’t help feeling responsible. 

It was I, after all, who saw the first signs of a mouse. Someone had gotten into my bag of chocolate and taken my Hershey’s kisses. The bottom of the bag was littered with crumbs. But the weird thing was, whoever had taken it had apparently gnawed up the foil too. So claimed the mess at the bottom of the bag.

Significantly weirded out, I threw out the chocolate, but having never lived with mice, I didn’t think to bring it up.

Then my roommate Esther found a bag of chocolate chips with a hole in the side. A quick search revealed teeth marks on boxes of food. We cleaned out that pantry and filled it with traps.

And a day or two later, I came home from work, checked the pantry to see if we’d caught anything—and there it was. A tail, lying on the shelf like a piece of shoestring licorice. Peering down, I traced the tail to a furry gray-brown body.

Cleaning the Crime Scene

I got a broom and tried to sweep it out. I’m not afraid of mice—talking mouse stories were my favorites as a kid—but realistically I know they’re probably diseased or something nasty, and anyway, it was dead.

The trap was way back in the pantry, and we’d left some cans and things back there. So I had to shuffle things around before the broom could finally reach.

And there it was, neck snapped, teeth bared, shiny black eye staring at the ceiling. Its lower body flopped as I swept it into a bag.

“Poor Mickey,” I said.

“No, don’t say that!” Esther begged from the living room. (To be clear, Esther, if you’re reading this, I am not severely depressed by the death of this mouse and you have nothing to apologize for.)

I disinfected the pantry shelf, picturing that limp little body. It didn’t look as cute as the talking animal stories or as the live mice in the pet store. But not too long ago, it had been alive. It had woken up not knowing today was its last. It had crept out of whatever hole it lived in, searching for another treat. “What will I find today?” it may have wondered. “I really liked that shiny sweet stuff. Ooh, is that peanut butter?”

(Side note, but the mice-love-cheese stereotype really needs to die.)

Was It Wrong? (And a long talk with God.)

“Is this wrong?” I asked God, staring at the trash can. “That mouse was one of Your creations, thought up at the beginning of the world. You know the very day it was born, all the things it ate.” Dramatic, but true.

I laid it out. I explained that I know mice should not be living in people’s houses and eating people’s food. I touched on the fact that we had bought food for ourselves, not for mice. I orated most eloquently on the diseases carried by infestious animals. (Actually, I didn’t. I just wanted a chance to use the word ‘infestious’ because it’s a great word. Please bring it back.)

To all this, God responded with the, “I know every sparrow that falls to the ground,” spiel. 

“Yeah, but—” I stepped carefully around the trash can. (I’m not afraid of mice.) “But this wasn’t an accident. We intentionally put out little killing machines for the sake of killing. Is that wrong?”

“Were you listening earlier?” God asked. I didn’t literally hear Him say that, but just bear with me.

“Yeah . . .” I said.

“Not a sparrow will fall,” God prompted.

“To the ground without Your notice,” I finished. “Yeah, I know. But—”

“You mentioned how I knew and created that mouse,” God said. “Do you remember that I made and created you?”

“Gooooood,” I whined. “You’re dodging the point.”

“Well,” God said, “do you remember?”

“Yeah, sure, why?”

“What do I say about the people I create?”

“That—that we matter more than sparrows.”

“Exactly!” God said.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “So, I matter more than this mouse we just killed. But what about—?”

“Shh,” God said.

“Shh?”

“Shh. You know what else I say about you? In the Bible?”

“You mean, in Ephesians 2:8-10? We’ve been created in Yeshua for good works that You prepared beforehand?”

“Exactly. Now, I do all sorts of things you don’t understand. I do all sorts of things you don’t even know about. I made that mouse, and I made you, but I did not make you to worry about that mouse. With me so far?”

I sighed. We have this conversation a lot, and it ends the same way. “It’s not my responsibility, is it, God?”

“Bingo.”

“Well. Okay. Thanks. Sorry for making it my responsibility.”

“Forgiven and forgotten,” God said, and I went on my way until the thought came up again this afternoon and I decided to write about it.

Sentence Absolved

I may have had a hand in killing Stuart Little, but God, the Maker of all things, doesn’t seem to hold that against me. ‘Mouse murderer’ is not my identity, no matter how much I ruminate over it.

What false identities are you holding onto? Did God really create you to be ‘dumb’ or ‘worthless’ or whatever you might think? Why don’t you take those identities to He Who cares for sparrows and humans (but humans a bit more), and say, “Hey, God, is this who I am to You?”

In other news, there appear to be no more nibblers in the pantry. But I guess I’d better keep the broom handy.

It seems like everyone here in Cambridge, Ohio, has a crazy mouse story. Check out these fuzzy adventures from J. Hulse White and Emily Gwaltney.