It was a warm August day in 1996 — warm by British Colombia interior standards but still slightly brisk for a teenage girl from Missouri. All around the region, large and frolicking waterfalls abounded. What a lovely day to get out and see them. Or so it seemed.

My parents and I had made the multi-day drive up in Dad’s humble red Dodge pickup to visit our Canadian relatives: uncle, aunt, and cousins that I had only seen a few times over the years due to the great geographic distance between us. That day, part way into our visit, Uncle Lloyd offered to take the three of us on an invigorating nature tour. We drove around to a few locales with much more accessible approaches or viewing spots, cleanly cut bluffs or wooden decking and steps. But Uncle Lloyd saved a favorite spot for last.

When we stopped the car at that final location, I was immediately puzzled when I got out but could neither see nor hear any sign of rushing water.

“It’s up this way,” Uncle Lloyd called over his shoulder, taking his sturdy walking stick in hand and heading off on a gravel-strewn path, toward a thick grove of trees trailing down the mountain looming above. We followed him and walked on that path for many minutes, the way becoming progressively more winding.

As I kept my eyes fixed on the trail, I was surprised when the gravel covering evaporated and the way forward was apparently not well-established. It was harder to see as the tree coverage above became denser. Yet, Uncle Lloyd seemed to know right where he was going given how his steady pace didn’t miss a beat from the more refined surface to the utterly wild one.

He glanced back to check on us and paused fully when he saw I was not immediately continuing. “Tired already?” he asked with a small smile.

“No,” I said, a bit of shakiness in my voice. “I just didn’t know it was going to be like this.”

The further we climbed, the more fear-filled I became. The path was slick in places due to recent rain. There was nothing to hang onto for security apart from the occasional tree we passed that closely. By the time we reached the top of the ascent and stood in close-viewing distance of a scraggy, impish falls with brilliant, multiple tiers, my emotions were shot.

Uncle Lloyd turned with a big smile. “Was really worth the climb, eh?”

I burst into tears. And I found myself sobbing nearly uncontrollably for a moment. It was embarrassing and equally scary for me to have difficulty reigning in my feelings, when I’d been encouraged for so long not to display negative emotions so openly in the first place.

“What’s wrong?” my uncle asked, his brow now furrowed, with deep concern in his voice. He stepped closer and turned back and forth between me and the view, seeming genuinely puzzled over how all that rugged beauty could draw out such terror and discomfort in me.

When I could finally speak coherently, I tried to excuse my childish display. “All the way up here, I was just thinking about not falling on the path,” I mumbled in a raspy voice, “and thinking about how hard the way back down will be.” Only two summers previously, I had severely sprained my ankle and was still gun-shy of being too adventurous lest I should repeat my clumsy misstep and go through all that again.

Once more his gaze swept back and forth between the falls and my tear-drenched face. He reached out to touch my shoulder. “It’s okay. Let’s stay here and rest for a few moments and enjoy the view. We’ll be careful going down. You can hold onto me if you need to in the tricky patches.”

I took a deep ragged breath and swiped the back of my hand across each cheek in turn. The waterfall really was magnificent. I tried to focus on it and breathe deeply, to calm my heart and agree that all this had been worth it. No matter how awful it felt to be pulled right out of my comfort zone.

I didn’t know my uncle very well. In that moment, I didn’t understand that he wasn’t scowling at me in disapproval or anger. But later, as I came to know him more, I would understand that his heart felt my anxiety in those moments. He wanted to put me at ease to some degree. But he also wanted me to lay down my fears and be free to enjoy the beauty in the world. So much beauty in the world that he could see. He was eager for me to learn this lesson in trust.

True to his word, when it was time to descend, he kept a reasonable pace, slowing down in places where it was prudent to do so. More than once, he anchored himself with his walking stick and made sure I and my folks all made it over a challenging spot. By the time we reached the bottom, my legs were shaking from the physical demands of the descent. But my emotions were restored to a peaceful state, and my confidence was quietly lifted.

Uncle Lloyd knew the way up and the way down. He knew where he was going. He knew what awaited him — and us. And he was eager to take us and show us. He was confident and sure in a powerfully humble way.

We finished out our visit. We drove back to Missouri. I went to college and off to teach in a foreign land. I came back to attend grad school and later to work Stateside. And I joined social media platforms. Through the Facebook connection, I got to know my uncle again. And better.

Here was a man who gave his whole life to loving his family and ministering to others for God’s glory in several different roles and capacities. Here was a man who approached things and people with both wisdom and kindness while never neglecting what he knew to be truth. Here was a man who, though human, did his best by God’s grace to live an upright life.

By that same social media platform, the Canadian family communicated with us as Uncle Lloyd recently became increasingly sick. Then went to the hospital, then was moved to hospice care and quickly faded. Finally, on March 16th, he flew away to the arms of Jesus.

Where he’d always known he was headed.

There is a nearly indescribable blessing in seeing the beauty of a wild waterfall, completely untamed, while one drinks in the thin mountain air like a dehydrated person. There is an even greater blessing, however, in knowing the way out and the way home. In knowing where I will end up one day. For good.

It is a sweet thing to trust Jesus. To hold on to Him in the rough spots. And to follow Him both there and back again.

Uncle Lloyd taught me that. One summer’s day. And by the span of his whole life.

Rest in peace. I will see you again, Uncle. I am blessed to know it.

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10 Strategies to Prepare for Speaking Engagements

This coming week in the Nebraska Legislature, a judiciary committee will begin to hear testimonies and statements from citizens regarding opinions on LB781: Adopt the Heartbeat Act. This bill, if passed, will protect unborn children from the threat of legal abortion in our state once their heartbeat has been detected. While I personally believe that a conceived child is a true and unique life even in the weeks before a fetal heartbeat first occurs, I appreciate this bill and the good that it can do if the legislation is passed and enforced. There are so many tiny, precious lives to be saved.

I’m not the type to attend a lot of big protest rallies or get up in the faces of other people via obnoxious, disrespectful debates. But I do have very strong opinions on matters such as this one. I think I’d forgotten, in fact, just how passionately I felt about it.

Until the day a brother from church encouraged me and others to speak up, to speak out, in the forum we were welcome to join. And I thought to myself, “Well, I can’t attend the hearings directly because I have to work at that time. But he says we can submit written statements for the committee’s consideration. I can at the very least do that.”

So, I sat down this afternoon to start writing my statement. And the more I wrote, the more I felt the need to write–to speak and to be heard, for the sake of those who cannot yet speak with words we can understand. When I finished writing, I felt a bit drained for all the energy it had taken to formulate the words and for all the goodness I felt over the thought of sharing my thoughts in the days ahead.

The Bible urges people to “speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves…” (Proverbs 31:8-9). When we will do so, we can be a tremendous blessing to those poor, needy, and voiceless ones. And when we do so, we receive a blessing in return: a blessing in knowing we have used the voice and words God has given us to do something really important in the world. The things we have said may fall on deaf ears in a human sense, but they will still have never been spoken or written in vain. Because God, the greatest Judge and the Most Just One sees and hears. And He is the one who returns blessings for obedience, time spent, reputations risked.

Whether it be speaking against murder of innocents, standing up to a bully to protect a less powerful person, or taking part in similar activities, we must choose wisely when we will speak up and speak out. Let us do what we can in the days and weeks He gives us to bless others in this way. Use your voice, friends, and be blessed in return.

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Valentine’s Cake by me 🙂

It’s time for a shout out. A love shout out, showering appreciation on those who mean so much to us. We can, and should, do this regularly. But I thought a bit of seasonal and encouragement might be in order.

So, a few weeks ago, I took to Facebook to announce a contest. I encouraged readers to reply in post comments or send me an email for a chance to have an affirming message to their loved one published here and also for a chance to win a copy of The Voice of Melody.

In terms of responses, I had a couple of initial great ones.

Charles McCoy wrote, “I love my wife, a living example of Genesis 2:18.” (If you don’t know the reference, that verse speaks of the creation of Eve as the suitable helper for her husband, made by God so that Adam did not need to be alone.)

And Chris Turack shared, “I love and appreciate God for giving me my husband John. And I love John because he has been so patient and encouraging in our forty years of marriage. He has never been critical of me and has cheered me through my hormonal/emotional ups and downs with ten pregnancies, two miscarriages, PMS, and now menopause. He has a great servant’s heart and I’m thankful to be married to him, my best friend.”

These are wonderful words, all.

I was encouraged by the start of the responses, looking forward to more. A short time before the submission deadline, I tried to share another post to remind people of the opportunity to participate.

That’s when things went haywire and I was temporarily blocked from Facebook. Apparently promotion of an activity that encouraged sharing such affirming words was going against their community standards. I have never thought of myself as a threatening person. And I have never thought that promoting loving words to bless those we cherish is an offensive act. I guess I was wrong.

After struggling to get past the block and sending feedback to protest their decision (which was received but not affirmed as valid…ironically), I chose not to try and promote the contest further. I saw that my original contest post had reached well over 100 readers. So, I just decided to wait and see what would happen.

The deadline came and went. No more responses.

Perhaps it is no longer the thing to publicly declare appreciation for another person for no other reason than just because we notice and cherish them, and want to let them know it.

Perhaps we have started to lose the ability to say something good about others in a genuine, selfless way: not doing it because we really want to draw attention to ourselves but because we really want to bathe that other person in the warmth of a loving spotlight.

Perhaps I would have gotten a greater quantity of responses if I had asked people to give a shout out to themselves. Or if I had asked people to tell us about the people and things that most often frustrate them.

As a culture, generally speaking, we speak far less love and appreciation than we should. We are given to focusing most on our own personal contentment, accomplishments, interests. We are quicker to speak what is harsh, critical, obscene, unverified, slanderous, manipulative, or self-serving than to speak what is thrive-promoting and praiseworthy. We want to focus on all the ways we have been hurt by others instead of affirming how others have helped us.

This is a great pity. Because a key way to promote goodness in the world and to really help “the community” is to write and speak more words of gratitude, appreciation, life.

And we fool ourselves if we think it is enough to say all the sweet things on one holiday a year and then go on with a nasty, selfish outpouring (or even just a neglectful silence) the other 364 days.

I am thankful for the answers that Charles and Chris submitted. Thankful not only for how they can each bless their spouse in this way this Valentine’s Day, but also for how they have each maintained healthy marriages for decades because they have chosen to speak words of affirmation and blessing on an ongoing basis, over the weeks and the years.

In the end, I will admit I didn’t enjoy my brief stent in Facebook “jail.” But that won’t make me stop sharing good words, encouraging good words. Let us all take the time to tell those around us more and more on a regular basis what we love about them, why we appreciate them, and how they have blessed us. We can start on Valentine’s Day…but let that only be the beginning!

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Photo taken by Aaron Burden

For a change of pace this week, here is a short poem I just drafted while reflecting on the following thought.

Each one of the blessings God bestows upon each one of us every day is unique. The blessings He has given you today are new and different than all that He has give you in the days before. Because, while He is unchanging, what we need from day to day may change, just as the degree to which we may need it can fluctuate. And He knows our needs intimately.

Each One, Unique

Frozen crystal wheel, tiny, light, and

Delicate, yet razor sharp, dances through

Air: frigid-stiff with breezy hints. It lands,

Stabbing my glove’s fingertip like

A dart thrown with minute accuracy. I

Marvel. Each flake, inspected, proves

Design’s plan and blessing’s beauty. It

Melts under heat from my up-close

Breath, but not before I have remembered

To thank Elohim for this moment, for this

Gift that will never be exactly repeated. A

Frosty exhale forms, rightly filled with awe.

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(Mr. Whiskers sends his love ❤)

Some say the devil is in the details. But I would say many blessings await us in the details instead. If we will watch for them.

I say “watch” because when we talk about noticing, we can’t always physically see things. Noticing may also occur because of sharp listening skills, sensitive fingers, a honed sense of smell, or a keen gut instinct.

Our guinea pig is getting old and has slowly been losing his vision. The vet said he has cataracts. He often can’t see things that are right beside him. But if he hears a certain crinkle sound and a snap, he knows I am getting veggies from the fridge for him and he shoots across his cage in anticipation. Likewise, on a hundred occasions, Mr. Whiskers has sensed when I was uneasy or sad or exhausted, and in each case he has shown with his body language or behavior that he understands I am struggling and he cares.

Usually, I notice many things about Mr. Whiskers too. I gather when he is annoyed and why. I sense when he is afraid. I anticipate many of his needs before he starts to show signs of those needs. But sometimes I drop the ball. Recently, his water bottle nozzle got jammed and I didn’t notice for quite some time. Several days ago, my husband found far more quickly than I did that Mr. Whiskers had a bunch of poop jammed up under his paw. In both of those cases, I felt terrible and unobservant.

When we notice the needs of another person in our lives, we communicate to them that we are paying attention, that they have worth in our eyes — enough to be noticed. Because noticing requires energy. And doing something to communicate what we’ve noticed and helping meet a need requires even more energy.

And when we are overworked, sleep-deprived, distracted, addicted, or otherwise selfishly affected, we do not have the energy we need to notice, to be blessed in the noticing, and to bless the other we have noticed.

My husband Paul and I have learned more about the blessing of noticing with each passing day. I find great joy in moments where I notice things and can help without him speaking up. I feel exceedingly loved when he does things for me just because he sees the need and not because I asked him one or more times. We both make mental notes of bothersome things the other person mentions and try to notice if that issue comes up again so we can avoid repeating the same trouble. But sometimes we mess up and forget and repeat our mistakes or fail to notice a need the other person has.

But even in that, there are blessings. There is the blessing of noticing that we were wrong or weak or thoughtless and the chance to be forgiven or extend grace. And there is the blessing of keeping a sharp, sensitive conscience so that we might continue to grow in the selfless love of Jesus. Because we care enough about each other and those around us to both notice and to actually do something about what we have noticed.

Yesterday, we went to the local zoo to enjoy the wonderful warm sunshine and milder afternoon. Without me saying a word, Paul decided to leave his phone in the car before we locked the doors. “I don’t want to be distracted,” he told me with a sheepish smile. “I want to be focused on you and all the interesting things we can spot here.”

The walk was sublime. And it wasn’t really because of the weather. It was because of Paul’s company and all we watched for along the way.

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(Watercolor by Kaylene)

Ralph Powell passed away yesterday. He was 75 years old and had struggled with some serious health conditions during his life. He lost two children over the years and faithfully cared for his wife who has been, herself, of limited mobility.

Ralph is my uncle. I am saddened by his passing. Saddened for my widowed aunt. Saddened for my father and his siblings. Saddened for my uncle’s neighbors and friends.

Saddened in and for myself as his niece, however? Reading reflections posted by Aunt Jean, I wondered if I have a right to be. After all, the brother she described was the uncle I barely knew. We lived at least a few hours apart over the years. And apart from a handful visits in my childhood and a number of letters I sent him later on, I had no contact with this uncle who spent many hours with my father as a boy and young man.

Yet, while reading Aunt Jean’s words, I felt my heart tugging, wishing I could have known my uncle more. Known his serving heart, known his gifted eye for helping to beautify spaces and cultivate plants, known his industrally-trained mind.

Last night, as I drifted to sleep, I quieted my heart with the wondrous thought that I will see Uncle Ralph again. And we will be able to know and understand each other better than we ever could have known each other on Earth. Because we will be in the place where we are fully known and where we have all the time in…well, not in the world really, but all the time in Heaven.

We, as mankind, were made for forever. We long for forever. But the forever now awaiting us is not universal.

Many of us have spent countless dollars and hours pursuing activities, using products, and eating foods that might help us live longer. Death seems like an annoying marage, a shadowy threat, or an eludable rumor. We want to develop some technology or wonder drug that will help us remain young and healthy and mentally sharp forever.

Because we have forgotten the Creator who made us. The Father who loves us. The King we were designed to dwell with forever. Before we broke faith and law…before our souls fell down.

But our souls do not have to remain crushed forever. They can be lifted from the mire of brokenness by the arms of Christ and washed in the blood of Christ to regain the possibility of forever life (instead of forever death). Because the forever we all need and long for is the forever of honoring God and of fellowshiping with each other with no distance, shame, secrets, or grief between us.

My Uncle Ralph’s days on Earth were extended by modern medicine, his work on Earth helped many people, and his time on Earth blessed more people than it cursed. But the most important thing I know about him and will remember is that Uncle Ralph knew Jesus and trusted in God’s grace through Christ.

And so, I grieve but I also praise. The blessing of forever awaits us. I want my heart and my mind to stay fixed on that promise with anticipation.

I will see you there, Ralph Powell. Can’t wait to know you better. Until then, rest in peace, and be blessed.

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  • Credit: Gabriel Alenius

THE COUNSEL OF THE LORD STANDS FOREVER, THE PLANS OF HIS HEART TO ALL GENERATIONS. Psalm 33:11

How does God bless us most dearly and vitally on a daily basis? In addition to keeping us alive and meeting our most basic needs, He offers us His counsel. This is a blessing that stands for all time and is supremely good, never leading us astray and never abandoning us in our time of needed wisdom.

Some people might argue that God can be silent or seem silent at times, and others may wonder how we can know His counsel at times when so many of us have never heard His audible voice. But in every generation and in every season, the counsel recorded for us in His Word can lead us well. And when we listen to wise people in our lives, where their advice falls in line with His Word, we are also guided with assurance.

His counsel is boundless. It is timeless. And it is matchless in value. In receiving His counsel – in even seeking it out in the first place – we open our hearts to the very best input we can receive. To our greatest daily blessing.

It is the ONLY source of true life, wisdom, guidance. It is the ONLY route for answers to the questions that gnaw at us in soul and in mind. All other outlets for potential blessing will leave a sense of phantom longing in the gut and a strange hit of dissatisfaction on the tongue.

And once we have found this blessing, it is not enough to only seek His counsel once or twice. No, we must hunger and thirst for it, crave it daily, and desire to live in it more fully.

Because the goal of being blessed by the Lord is to know Him better…that His blessed counsel in our lives should bring Him glory and lift our hearts to see things at least a little more from His point of view.

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Shrouded in fleece and denim, I sit near the snow-crusted window while the heat vent seems to blow nearly continuously at my feet. The furnace has worked overtime within while the wind and ice have danced madly without. Now the last bits of clouded daylight fade into shades of ever-darkening slate.

On such a new year’s day, I contemplate time’s passage and hope for what may yet await me in faith, life, relationships, work…and how I might use the insatiable thirst to write more poignantly to bless my readers in new or renewed ways. To that end, I now share my plan for writing in the first months of 2022.

Blogs in the coming weeks will connect to a theme of Give More, Bless More. I will be exploring aspects of alternative ways to give and to bless as well as alternative ways to view how God has blessed us and how we can bless others. I hope you’ll come back week after week and join me for this thoughtful journey.

Until next week, and for today, I close with a brief, spontaneous poem-prayer:

“Scour me, Lord, and purify,

Like windswept land ‘neath snow and sleet.

Freeze selfishness and liquify

My frozen heart–’twas buried deep.

Then, let me learn and testify

What sacrifice brings blessings sweet.”

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“Then you will know the truth and the truth will set you free…If the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.” ~Jesus (in John 8)

I saw life and freedom and gratitude differently this past Thanksgiving holiday week. And a profound truth sank deep into my heart.

**We cannot know the wonder of true freedom unless we recognize and find release from our imprisonment. And we cannot know the humility and quieting of true gratitude unless we have known the blackest of moments.**

A little over a year ago, I married a dear man who had previously spent over six years in prison. And that criminal sentence was based on a single bad choice, one day’s actions gone south. He was not normally the harmful type. I chose to love him and give him a chance, in part, because I understood that we have all made poor choices, acted cruelly to some degree towards others, and (ultimately) sinned against God so that we deserve time in prison and even death.

Even though I have never been sentenced to prison, that doesn’t mean I have never deserved to be.

The same can rightfully be said of you, dear reader. No matter who you are. That is the truth.

Yet, while my husband has been a prisoner in a brick and morter, big-operation institution, I have been a prisoner of a different kind: one enslaved mentally by fear, pain, hatred, and shame. That is also a truth I cannot deny. And I have found my freedom in no longer wishing to deny it.

This is the Truth to which those previous truths have led us, my dear husband and me. Jesus came to Earth to live and die and rise again so that all criminals and all enslaved ones (read: every human) can be atoned for, made pure before God, when we trust Him and His gift with a promise: that the weighty truth of our absolute need for His covering, sacrifice, mercy, and favor lifts us up to experience and cherish true freedom as is otherwise impossible.

This freedom is not to be a set of temporary political rights flaunted during our earthly life so much as it is a calling to train through the growth-spurts of this earthly life so that we will be fully perfected in the life to come.

Which leads to the second half of that profound truth. True gratitude is borne out of our hearts after they have hit the lowest places, after we having known loneliness, neediness, sorrowfulness…brokenness.

Due to special circumstances and parole-related complications, my husband and I were only able to live together for about one-third of our first year of marriage. Even now, we hopefully long for our situation to change soon, and we can’t wait for this separation to end.

It has, frankly, been a frustrating thing to have our life, in part, dictated by parole officials in other states who have never met me (or, sometimes, have never met my husband either). It has also been a humbling thing.

And…now I see that it has also been a gratitude-forming thing.

For the shaft in the mine is so deep and pitch-dark. But the lump of inky rock we are carrying back into daylight together will be broken open to reveal the hardest, most precious stone. I know it.

Because we may temporarily have to live under these restrictions. But we have held fast and kept faith. And this has made us grateful for a hundred things many other couples would take for granted.

This is also and equally true: embracing the Truth found only in my Jesus is the first step in a longer journey. And through every trial and struggle, He can refine gratitude and goodness in the hearts of those who trust Him.

Oh, what good news to know and remember.

Let us, then, acknowledge our debt, our need, our freedom, and our gratitude today. Not to fate or only to our family members.

But to the source of every good thing and everything worked for our good: the Son.

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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.

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