Muck

The barn held little warmth.
Drafty, dusty, hay scattered.
It did shelter from drops splattering.
Yet where she needed to traverse was muck spread wide.
Isn't muck simply mud and yuck intermingling?
It is dirt and foul mixed with rain come down.
It is stench of sin, miring.
She must wade through, to fetch water. 
To care for what's been entrusted.
She treads careful, slow. Avoiding the worst.
Even so, boots and pants are layered thick.
Oh, to perform this task just once and remain clean, untouched by such.
Too late, she remembers one more bucket needing to be filled.
Back through mire she treks.
She stops, unexpected, there in the midst.
Of muck.
Of drops cascading.
And wonders. 
Was not God born into this?
Drafty, dusty, yuck, intermingling?
Did He not willingly wade into sin, miring? 
"He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; He set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand." Psalm 40:2
She came to fetch water and found her own thirst quenched.
Muck was part of life.
But there was a Rock to stand upon.
A Baby. 
Born into this.