Handyman

  

Ding Dong

"Hello?  May I help you?" She asks as she cracks the door and screen door.

"Hi.  I'm Matt, your neighbor." 

"Hi Matt.  Have we met?"  She wonders because, honestly, the people-meeting-thing is a blur.

"Uh, well, yes.  I'm here to offer my handyman service.  I'm usually very busy, but I have time right now and thought I'd ask the neighborhood."

She tells him she has a handyman son, well... she had a handyman husband, who by the way, remodeled the house for her, he was very handy, he even made cabinets, so she moved here when he died and now she is her own handyman except when she can't be. 

FCOL! (For Cryin Out Loud). Why in the world did she tell him all that?  What was she thinking?  She doesn't know Matt.  She can't recall... neighborhood Matt.  She doesn't need, doesn't want, neighborhood Matt. 

"He must have loved you to leave you this beautiful home.  How long were you married?"

"We were married 40 years!  And we did love each other!  Oh we loved each other!"

OGG!  (Oh good grief). Now she's telling neighborhood Matt about her marriage.  It's spilling out.  All over neighborhood Matt. 

She quickly comes to her senses.  The ones she has left. 

"Well thank you for the offer.  Leave your name, Matt, and your number, in case.  Goodby and thanks again."  As she closes a door practically on top of him. 

She must miss her handyman.  She does.  She misses her handyman.  

 

Parent

 

Parents are the same as juice drinks, car rides to birthday parties, presents for birthday parties, vitamins, reading practice, driving practice, Bible foundation, shoes, sandals, boots, more shoes, sandals, boots. Parents are just about everything until...

Parents are prayer warriors, bleacher warmers, littlebear funners, ice cream suppliers, birthday rememberers, car maintenance advisors, recipe keepers, woo-hooers, stand-byers. Parents are some things but aren’t everything anymore.  

But one parent, an exception to the parent rule, was close to everything.  He would make the trip, put in the extra miles, stay the extra night, spend the extra dollars, make the extra calls, do the extra errand, join the extra get-togethers, warn the extra watch-outs…  was pretty much everything. 

The other parent watched in wonder. The other parent wasn’t all the extras and at the other end of everything. 

But, this week, the other parent did an extra. One tiny extra. She feels a notch closer to being like the everything parent. An inch. A nod.

She’ll never ever be the everything parent, but she feels closer to him anytime she does a little something extra. 

Sovereign

What does a Bible reader take away after reading the book of Ezekiel?  A chapter from Ezekiel?  A line from Ezekiel?

That God, the Sovereign Lord, has spoken.

That means, that's that.

That means, Kath, the Sovereign Lord has the first and last word in your day, in your family, for your life.  

That means, Kath, the Sovereign Lord's plan for your life may not be dissuaded, persuaded, evaded by other influences.  That means He exercises full and absolute control.

That means, Kath, the Sovereign Lord commands every potential circumstance to subject itself to His plan for your day, your family, your life. 

That means, that's that.

Kath 

The Sovereign Lord, the Lord who loves you and has planned only good for your day, your family, your life, has spoken. 

TOL

 

I've never lived with other widows, but I wonder, I suspect we... well, do we...?  Do we, all of us, for the sake of speaking to and hearing from... somebody... do we talk right out loud (TOL)?  To no one and nothing?

The kind of talking out loud that is known to be a little kookoo?  A little looloo?

(Whispering). I do this.  All day.  Top to bottom.

It goes like this.  Get up, stretch, say, "Here we go, Kath."   List tasks out loud, say, "Start the laundry, but grab the package at the door first.  Wait.  Check your calendar.  Do you have an appointment soon?"  During the radio show, comment, say, "Good point," and, "What does that mean?"  To the dog, the pantry, heck... the walls, ask, "Well what are we going to do about that?"  Then proceed to offer solutions... to the dog, pantry, and walls.  

Widows talk right out loud.  Talking gives them something to say and something to listen to.   It quiets the quiet.  It noises up the day a little. 

Widows have to remember to hide their kookoo and their looloo when they leave home.  They don't want to be known as a talk-to-your-selfer, even though... well... we TOL, all day... to ourselves.  

Blankets

This is silly, but blankets need me.  They don't seem to care if it's winter or summer.  They don't mind sweats or shorts, perspiration or goose bumps, awake or asleep, happy or sad or really sad.  Blankets seem to need me.  They find me.  In rockers and recliners and reading rooms. 

And when they do, they pile up like a... pile of covered fluffy feathers.  A mound of lumpy or floaty... mound. 

Not long ago I threw blankets off, scorning their added heat to my already full-force furnace.  I threw them atop a husband who they need just as much as me.  They were happy to land on him.

Now they need me twice as much.  For there are twice as many that need me.  Twice as much cozy and comfort and care.  Twice as much outside and inside warmth.  Twice as much covering, enveloping, sheltering.  

Blankets must need me.  They just need to keep me wrapped and secure and held.  And I need them.

Weary

 

Sometimes widows are weary.

I can't figure it out.  What makes a widow weary?  Is it all the things?

Cleaning, gassing, grocerying, billing and figuring and mailing, littlebearing, volunteering, running, hosting, planning, praying, caring, tracking, Bibleing, calling, connecting, transporting, cooking, repairing, listening, deciding, weeding, ordering, doing, doing, doing.  

Many things and extra things and more things. 

Is it the pace or the summer sun or the concerns or the expectation or the pain? 

Or is it just plain getting older?

Do all the things make a widow older?  Which then makes her weary? 

Or is it figuring out what makes a widow weary, that makes a widow weary?

Sometimes widows are weary.  I can't figure it out. 

Husband-talk

 

Friends visit.  Long time friends visit.  Friends of church-going and teacher-working and family-raising days.  Prayer friends, being-there friends, burden-carrying friends.  Friends who know each other, belong to each other, love each other.  Through it all.  Special friend friends. 

The friends talk and share stories, currents and particulars.   

She would rather stand up than sit down.  Her back is particular.  She would rather snack French fries than ice cream.  Her stomach is particular.  She is thankful for her daughter's work choices.  She is thankful for her husband's better health choices.  

And speaking of husbands, we speak of husbands.

Her husband cooks, keeps the yard, and baseballs.  Her husband tinkers and reads and doctors. Her husband doesn't much care for walking.  Her husband much prefers motoring.  

And well... her husband golfs and tinkers and walks, the afternoons with her.  Or used to.  Golfed and tinkered and walked.  

She speaks of her husband like the friends speak of their husbands. She adds a tidbit about that husband-topic.  She piles on the top of that husband-subject, completely forgetting that her husband doesn't... golf and tinker and walk anymore.  

The friends talk about particulars and husbands.  The husbands have been and always will be part of their talk. Friends and their husband-talk. 

Littlekid

Little kids feel big when they ride around the block on an almost-too-big bike. 

Little kids feel little when they grip a jacket on the back end of a motorcycle. 

 

Little kids feel big when they stay home alone, choose their own food, watch their own show.  

Little kids feel little when they stay home alone and hear strange noises.  

 

Little kids feel big when they play games with little kids. 

Little kids feel little when they don't understand how to play the big kids' game.  

 

Little big little big.  Big.  Little.

 

Grown-up kids feel big when they live together in a grown-up home, their grown-up home.  It's a home like other grown-up homes where people live together.   They care for the home, make home decisions, sit around a table -- at home -- all together.   The home belongs to all the big and little kids. 

Grown-up kids feel little when they live in a grown-up home... alone.  It's a home like other grown-up homes, only, people don't live together.  Only the grown-up little kid.  The home is too much, the decisions too complicated, the table too big for one grown-up little kid.   The grown-up little kid feels little.  Does this home belong only to her?  Is it really all her responsibility?  How can she sit around a table by herself?  The grown up feels little every time she pulls in the driveway.  Every time she opens the door.  Every time she cleans or fixes or decides or sits.  Every time.  

The grown-up kid is really a little kid.  

Eyes

 

I lift up my eyes to the mountains— where does my help come from?  My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.  He will not let your foot slip—he who watches over you will not slumber…The Lord watches over you—the Lord is your shade at your right hand; the sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night.  The Lord will keep you from all harm—he will watch over your life; the Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore. Psalm 121

When mountains surround eyes, eyes lift to see their peaks, their majesty, their expanse in the sky. Their unspeakable beauty. Eyes are breathless as they behold the mountains. 

But eyes can only really do this when they pause. Intentionally. They stop, they settle, they focus. On the mountains’ Maker. 

When eyes are not lifted, they’re fixed on the upward mountain path, the path mapped out to be trudged. Eyes are concerned about stumbling, about shade, about enough help to keep going.  Wearying steps consume them. 

Steps of independence. Steps of paying bills and driving miles, and navigating family, and conducting business, and staying learned, and… coming and going. 

Oh eyes!  Pause.  Settle.  Focus.  Remember He who watches over you. He promises to watch over you. He will watch over you! Keep you from stumbling. Keep you shaded. Keep you helped. 

So lift up, oh eyes!