Herbert the Tortoise died a gruesome death under the wheels of a truck, on a hot African afternoon.
When I first met Herbert (or Herb for short) his untimely demise was not a part of my plan for him. Nor, I think, was it in his plans for himself. I don’t suspect he had grandiose visions of a dramatic martyrdom. Like many tortoises of his age and disposition, I believe he wanted to live out his life frustrating the appetites of weak-jawed carnivores and making slow, slow, slow love to a Mrs. Herb, if he had been so lucky as to woo one.
Alas, Herb the Tort was never given the chance.
As tortoises go Herb was fairly average, which is to say, Herb was slow in word and deed. This accounts for his being captured by a poor African farmer, his inability to talk himself out of slavery, and his subsequent sale to yours truly, the passing missionary.
Yes, and Herb mourned his loss of freedom. I know this because in spite of an unending supply of food and water, Herb was always trying to make his way out of the safe haven I had provided for him. Adventurous little bugger that he was, he tired quickly of city life and longed for the wilds of the West African bush. His stout heart was ready to brave the snakes and general African nastiness for a chance to find a young reptile of like species with a sexy little mini-shell.
It came as no surprise then, when one day Herb was seen slowly making his way to the gate of the compound we called home. He had placed himself in the perfect position for a hasty escape.
And “hasty” is exactly where his strategy fell short of genius. He was a tortoise after all. As those gates swung open the first thought that entered into his tiny little head might have been “Freedom!”, but the last thing he saw was rubber.
Oh Herb, you were such a good friend, and even now in your death you give us a nugget of eternal wisdom.
Friends, we too are often slow. Slow to forgive. Slow to sacrifice. Slow to love. We want our freedom, and if it isn’t delivered just how and when we want it, we’ll go take it. It doesn’t matter that life will lead us into trouble by default- we feel the need to add our poor choices and selfishness to the mix.
But pause now, and watch Herb in his last few moments of life. Gaze into his eyes as he turns his knobby little head towards you, the realization of imminent doom looming large in his pleading expression. I made a mistake, he says. I was brought here so that I wouldn’t be made into soup, and now it’s too late for me. Go back. Trust Someone bigger. Put your life in the hands of Someone swifter. Go back.
