Of Mice and Women
by Mary Pierce
We saw the first mouse two weeks after we moved into our house in the woods. The house had been vacant for two years because, according to the realtor, “This is too far out in the country for most local people.” We laughed. The house was a fifteen-minute drive from town. We’d just moved to Wisconsin from southern California, where fifteen minutes gets you nowhere.

But this vacant country house was not vacant. A mouse had taken up residence. Terry spotted it on a Sunday morning in the basement family room just before we left for church. I was upstairs in the kitchen when I heard him holler.

“Mouse!” Yelling “Mouse!” is like screaming “Fire!” It gets everyone’s attention.

“Mouse? Where? Where’s a mouse?” The kids came thundering from all corners of the house.

“Get the broom!” Terry yelled to me.

“Get the cats!” my son yelled to his sisters.

Our two cats, Domino and Tigger, were southern California cats and accustomed to climate-controlled, indoor living. They were unaccustomed to being around wild creatures, other than the children.

Back in the family room, Terry grabbed the broom and used it to coax the mouse toward the now-open sliding glass door. I offered encouragement.

“Shoo, shoo, little mouse,” I said. Terry offered words of advice as well — not nearly as gentle as mine. The mouse, preferring his cozy basement abode to the chilly outdoors, ran toward the couch. The cats, curiosity aroused, loped toward him. The mouse froze in place, six inches from safety, as the cats stared at him.

Moments passed as I wondered if these domesticated felines might still possess some primeval urge to hunt. Apparently not. They stared at the possum-playing mouse, and then turned their noses up and sauntered away in true cat fashion, with tails high as if to say, “Bo-ring! This can’t be something to eat. Food comes in a bag.”

Mousey skedaddled under the couch. We left for church, shutting the door to the family room with the mouse and the two cats trapped inside. We hoped that the cats would eventually get the idea. A few hours later, we returned to find a dead mouse and Domino and Tigger sitting guard over it, daring it to move again.

“Eww!” said the daughters.

“Cool!” said the son.

“Good kitties!” said Terry.

“Poor little mouse,” said I.

That particular mouse battle was over, but the war had just begun, for our house, we soon realized, had become a mouse Mecca in its two vacant years.

Oh, how those little critters breed! I became a spy, listening at the walls for noises in the night, lying still in bed to identify the precise pattern of the scurrying in the attic above the bedroom. Were they traveling along ceiling joists, or was it the furnace ductwork they followed?

Briefings over breakfast became routine as Terry and the children joined the battle. “I heard scratching above the bathroom sink last night,” the son reported one morning.

“I heard it in my bedroom ceiling,” a daughter said.

“Me too,” said the other.

“Put some poison in the attic today,” Colonel Terry ordered.

“Roger that,” said Major Mom. We fought long and hard. Sometimes we felt that victory was in our grasp. And then we’d find a slew of traps, unsprung but licked clean of peanut butter. Not only were our mice living, but they were living well.

The battle raged inside and out. We searched out and filled every hole we could find outside in our old cedar siding. Frustrated that mice were still getting in, we tore off some old siding and there we found Mouse Central Station — huge holes where water damage had rotted away the interior of the wall. To compound the problem, carpenter ants had gotten under the siding in this old house, eating away wider and wider access for the marauding mice.

The mice and ants had combined forces to defeat us. It was time to call in the heavy artillery. Pete the Pest Terminator arrived — a grizzled man with blood in his eye and a tank the size of Cleveland slung over his back. As I opened the door, he leaned down to snuff out his cigar on my front steps, then tucked the stub into his shirt pocket, behind the embroidered Terminator.

Week after week, Pete brought in the heavy artillery. I continued to set my traps, and the numbers of enemy casualties climbed significantly. The ants — and every other kind of bug — disappeared from a four-foot perimeter outside our foundation wall. The walls grew quiet. The ceiling scurries ceased. An occasional whiff of decaying mouse hit us from within the recesses of our walls, but the temporary nastiness was worth it.

After months of enemy occupation, Pete certified us to be pest free. We were at peace.

But like a World War II air-raid warden, I’m ever vigilant, scanning the floors for the first sign of scat, listening in the walls for initial stirrings, alert to skittering across the attic joists. Ever vigilant for signs that the enemy has returned. And I need to be vigilant because the first mouse is never the last mouse.

I’m here to tell you: If you give a mouse a cookie, he won’t just want a glass of milk. He’ll invite all his friends and his vast extended family to join him. They’ll invade your basement, your attic, your walls and your closets. They’ll eat your wiring, chew your insulation, and eventually make you sick.

Pete said it best. “Don’t let the first mouse in.” Great advice. And it applies to more than furry rodents. It applies to life. I dare not say, “Oh well, it’s just one little mouse. It’s not hurting anything.” I know what happens next. I know the destruction that follows.

I can’t say, “Oh it’s just one little brownie,” because I know me. One little brownie leads me to another slightly less-little brownie. And another. Before I know it, I’ve got my face in a whole pan of brownies, and cake, and ice cream, and cookies, and all the other wonderful, fabulous sweet treats I crave, and then . . . Where was I? Oh yeah . . . Before I know it, I’ve lost my way instead of the weight. (Perhaps you can have the one little brownie and be satisfied. I can’t.)

I can’t say, “Oh it’s just one little cigarette,” if I really want to be a nonsmoker. I can’t say, “Oh it’s just one little drink,” if sobriety is my goal.

I know the destruction that follows, how one little thing can become one huge problem.

One little lie, one little compromise, one little lapse of judgment has the potential to destroy my integrity and my reputation.

One little foray to the casino, to the porn site, to the dark side can destroy my relationships, my future, and eventually my faith.

But, oh! The temptation to indulge, to allow, or to rationalize just that one little thing. Just this once. The temptation to ignore that little voice — Is it conscience? Is it Pete? — that says, “Don’t do it. Don’t let the first mouse in.” The problem is that “once” too easily becomes “twice.” Allowing one slip makes it easier to allow another and then another.

We must be ever vigilant. Vigilant in deciding what we will allow in — into our homes, into our heads, or into our hearts. The Bible warns, “Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour” (1 Peter 5:8). Temptation — just that one little thing — is all around. But there is good news:

“The temptations in your life are no different from what others experience. And God is faithful. He will not allow the temptation to be more than you can stand. When you are tempted, he will show you a way out so that you can endure” (1 Corinthians 10:13 NLT).

The time for me to resist the brownies is not when I’m looking at the pan, still warm from the oven, holding the knife in my hand, ready to slice into that heavenly delight. The time to resist is not when I’m combining the ingredients in the bowl. The time to resist is before that. I can’t let the first mouse — or in this case, brownie mix — into my shopping cart. God will show me (if I let him) the way out; it’s usually through the produce department!

What are the mice in your life? What mouse is tempting you and threatening your peace of heart right now? Action, attitude, or addiction — ask God to show you healthier, safer, saner alternatives. Ask God to show you how to plug the holes where the mice are getting in.

Ask God to “mouse-proof” your life today. He can give you peace — if you will let him.

From When Did My Life Become a Game of Twister? by Mary Pierce