The term humble developed first via Middle English in the 13th and 14th centuries, coming from combined roots that mean low, earth, and on the ground. Also during the same period, a dish called “umble pie” became popular. That pastry, filled most often with venison innards and bits, didn’t necessarily have anything to do with a person’s being humble or lowly. But because the two words sounded so similar, humble pie would later stay on in idiomatic English as a way to express those times when we find we should admit we are wrong — and it can be embarrassing or even humiliating to do so.

Recently, as I watched the state of world affairs go from bad to worse, I became increasingly upset over how my national leaders were handling international circumstances. Our president made one call and the results of that call tripped a trigger for trouble. But then, instead of admitting that maybe the first choice was not a good one, he refused to see anything faulty and even bragged about how his actions were great…before stepping into another, bigger pile of manure with his next move. And on and on, day after day, the hole of the consequences has grown bigger and bigger. And he has never once admitted he was even slightly in the wrong, never once eaten humble pie. I must confess, it has been a painful, shameful thing for me to watch.

And it has reminded me that while it can be awkward to watch someone eat humble pie, especially in a very public light, it is usually much better for the sake of everyone involved if the person(s) who need(s) to eat humble pie will do it early on and right the ship of the situation or the relationship before long.

Before things get too far off course.

A few days ago, while I was working from home, I went to the kitchen to heat leftovers for lunch. A usual few minutes in the (over-the-stove, wall-mounted) microwave would do nicely. But it was not to be. I tripped a breaker in the fuse box and went downstairs to reset it before trying again. Six times of repeating this quick-repair dance in the coming moments found me annoyed, concerned, and slightly out of breath (as I was just finishing my recovery from COVID).

I texted my husband, Paul, and let him know about the situation. He too was concerned about the possible cause of the problem. Was it just an appliance issue, or was it more of a safty issue, with an electrical short somewhere in the wiring, outlet, or breaker box? Since he wouldn’t be back home for a couple days to look at it in person, he encouraged me to make an appointment with an electrician for the following week. In the meantime, I simply wouldn’t try to use the microwave.

When Paul came home today, he asked about heating something quick for lunch. That’s when I showed him the microwave. We wanted to see if the problem remained, so I plugged it back in. Then, not wanting to just turn it on with nothing inside, I grabbed a mug of water, set it inside on the glass turntable, shut the door, set 25 seconds of time, and pressed start. Just as before, half a second in, the breaker tripped. I went back down to reset once more, and Paul went to get an extension cord so that we could check the microwave via an outlet tied to a different breaker. It tripped that breaker too.

“I think it’s the microwave itself, babe,” he sighed. “I think it is going south and we just need to get a new one.”

I bit my lip. I didn’t like that. I hate spending money unnecessarily, especially in large or sudden amounts.

But my dear husband was a man on a mission, and he was going to get that microwave taken down and replace it if it was the last thing he did today. I could see it was important to him, to do this for me and our home, and I wanted to see him do it safely, so I went and found the owner’s manuals for all our appliances and some other items that I hoped would help him do the job without injury. I was afraid it might be heavy for him to lift down from such an awkward angle. So, his focus was on getting that thing down quickly, and my focus was on helping him do so without cracking his head or breaking an arm.

Paul oriented himself before unscrewing the top bolts that anchored the microwave to the upper cabinet. Then, as the machine tipped forward so he could try to lift it off the bottom wall mounting plate, we were both shocked to see fluid come pouring from the back and bottom of the microwave onto the stove and floor!

“What in the world??” Paul cried, and he hurried to set it down on the glass range top as quickly but as gently as possible.

“I don’t know,” I cried in equal alarm, before rushing to get paper towels for the liquid and then stare in wonder at the holey wall behind where the microwave had just hung.

Thus, we started a short but lively discussion about the jagged holes in the wall, the gap between them and the outer wall, the newly-discovered wet insulation in between those two walls, and the apparently waterlogged appliance now making a mess on the stove top in front of us.

“No wonder it wasn’t working right,” Paul said. “We’ve got to get it out of here! Will you get the door?”

I ran ahead of him to clear the way so he could get it out to the nearby dumpster across the street. It tumbled in with a crash. I sighed with relief that Paul had not injured himself carrying it down and lifting it over the high dumpster edge.

He came back up to help me clean up a little, and we headed off to lunch at a restaurant, talking all along the way about theories for how the liquid in the microwave had built up and how we would probably need to call in the HOA for repairs. Paul also texted some church friends who had an extra microwave we could use in the meantime. We finished lunch and drove to their house to pick up the loaner. After all, we didn’t want to buy and install a new machine that was just going to get flooded out if we didn’t know the source of the leak. We thanked our generous friends and then made another stop before we headed back home.

When we pulled up to the condo, Paul looked at the dumpster with consternation. Before I understood exactly what he was thinking, I saw him step over and lunge across the edge of the dumpster, grabbing and yanking up our old microwave.

“Love, what are you doing?” I cried.

“Seeing if maybe I can salvage the glass plate and rotation ring. You know they might be useful to keep for later –” He stopped short when he had opened the door and looked inside. And as we watched, both the glass plate…and our red mug…tumbled out.

There was a very pregnant pause.

And then it hit us.

I am not sure which one of us busted out laughing first. I think it was Paul.

Well, that’s where the water came from. We had both been so concerned about other things, we totally forgot about the mug. The mug full of water that was never heated. The mug that I had bought for Paul as a gift last Christmas, for about $2 at a discount store.

It had been carried roughly to the dumpster, thrown inside via the hosting appliance, and now thrown to the bottom of the dumpster when it fell from said microwave. And, though the glass plate was broken, the mug was fine.

I ran back into the house to get a broom. And we used the handle to fish out the mug and carry it back into our little kitchen, laughing richly the whole time.

We talked about where each of us went wrong in our actions and assumptions. We smiled over our foggy thinking due, no doubt, to the stupor of recent illness. We shared hugs and kisses. And we thanked God for the sweetness of eating humble pie together, which isn’t so hard to do in the absence of blaming, name-calling, and anger.

Then, we placed an order for a new microwave –which Paul can’t wait to install after delivery.

I pray that we will continue to handle humble pie situations in our future relationship with openness, grace, and immediate understanding. And I pray that others around me and above me will find the better results that can come when we choose to admit our misunderstandings, mistakes, and bull-headedness — before too much or total damage has been done.