His True Self

One thing that seems to help with the stress of the situation is hard physical labor. The other day, I decided, basically on the spur of the moment, to shampoo our carpeting. Just the traffic areas. Just on the main level. Believe it or not, this is a major endeavor.

I started the project with quite a bit of, shall we say, pent-up energy. But the thing is, well, it's shampooing the carpets. There's only so much oomph to go around; so, pretty soon, I was "in the groove" and actually feeling pretty good.

That's when my husband decided I should be finished with my work. I should be sitting with him, watching television. This is not an unreasonable request, under normal circumstances. But when you're "in the groove" of shampooing carpets, it's best not to sit down. You might not get back up. So, there was a certain amount of understandable pouting and sighing on his end. He thought I'd been at it for hours and hours, when it had only been...okay, it had been hours and hours. But he thought it had been more hours than it had been. Or something.

I decided to keep doing what I was doing, because it had to get done. I'm sure you've all been there. You can't hire everything out. Or even most things. Not yet, anyway.

I don't pretend to know what led to the next thing I noticed, but it was a beautiful thing. My husband had gone into the back yard, and he was raking leaves. Lots of golden, autumn, fallen leaves. In great, big piles. He saw something that needed doing, he decided to do something about it, and he proceeded to be helpful. Because, you see, my husband has the gift of helps. And, sometimes, it still comes forth in all its shining glory. All by itself. With no hints from me. Deep down, people need to be needed. They need to feel useful. Meaningful.

My heart was so blessed by his kindness and encouraged by his endeavor to be out there, doing something that needed to be done. What else could I do? I went outside, too, and helped him to get those piles of leaves into the trash cans for curbside recycling pickup. I remember when you could just burn them...but that's a whole other blog entirely.