The Day the Mud Swallowed My Sisters (And I Learned to See)

Feel the thaw. Sense the trap.

It starts with a thaw—a late-winter lie that crusts the snow and turns the ground to soup. Have you ever watched someone you love step into a moment that looked safe—only to sink?

In our country home, a comma between cornfield and farm, the sledding hill called. Long. Steep. Ending in a creek where I’d later catch my first fish, hold it up like a holy thing, then let it slip back, glittering, gasping. Beyond the garden—untidy, not ours—a barbed-wire fence stood guard. Cross it, and the hill was yours.

That day, my sisters—Dianne the bold, Debbie the sensible, Darlene the spark—answered the call. No sneaking. Just boots, sleds, and a plan to fly.

When the Ground Gives Way

Some moments swallow you whole.
One sister stepped into the garden. Boots sank. Ankles followed. Socks, then panic. She lifted a foot; the other sank deeper. She cried out. Another sister rushed in—because that’s what you do when someone you love cries out.

And then she sank too.

A comedy scripted by the Lord Himself, humbling us before the thaw. Mud clung like a parable. A brilliant, messy lesson in what happens when you trust the crust.

I stood at the edge. Part of the story, but not swallowed. Watching. Knowing this was beyond a child’s fix.

The Boy Who Ran

Run when the world needs you.
I bolted up the north drive, past the sheds, to the neighbor’s porch where grown-ups sipped coffee, talking seed catalogs and late frosts. Breathless, I spilled the story.

The rescue came fast: boots marching, planks swinging, a tractor rumbling like a folk tale come alive. Sisters in peril. A boy who ran. Men in flannel, saints with forearms, pulling them free.

Boots stayed stuck. Snow pants were ruined. Pride took the hardest hit.

No one was hurt.
And yes—eventually, we laughed.

What I Saw at the Edge

Stand at the edge. Spot the sink.
That day, I learned by watching. Not sinking taught me to scan the horizon for who’s about to go under. To spot the soft spots in the snow.

I didn’t know it then, but I was rehearsing. For years later, when messes weren’t muddy and rescues didn’t come with tractors. When the people I love sank—not into cornfields, but into fear, silence, shame.

Some dangers roar.
Some hurts hide.

To the one who later whispered she felt unsafe—not from harm, but from being unseen:

I see you now.

What You’re Good At

You know this moment.
That day shaped me, but it’s your turn now—what do you see when the ground gives way? The moment someone sinks and you notice. The moment you drop the coffee cup, grab the plank, and run. Not for glory, but because someone needs you.

I’m still the boy at the edge.
Still whispering, You’re not alone.
Still learning to see the quiet hurts, the ones that don’t cry out.

Some kids are tough. Some go quiet. Some disappear in plain sight. But all of them deserve someone watching the thaw. Someone who says, Not yet.

Maybe what I’m good at—even when I don’t look it—is showing up. Quietly. Responding. Faithfully. Seeing. Deeply.

What’s your gift?
Not the job title. Not the degree. But the thing that kicks in when someone starts to sink. The thing you do, even when no one notices.

Don’t let it stay hidden—share your story in the comments and let’s uncover our quiet strengths together.

Tags: #ChildhoodMemories #QuietStrength #EmotionalSafety #FamilyStories #RescueMoments #HiddenGifts #FaithAndGrace #Vulnerability #SlowWisdom #HeartWork #WhatAreYouGoodAt #CommunityHeals #SeeingOthers #GenerationalGrowth