I was glad to be home after a whirlwind 24-hour getaway. It had included, among other things, a picnic lunch by a stream and setting marshmallows ablaze by bonfire. (Why? Is there another way to toast them?) I happily anticipated a hot shower to erase the traces of dirt and sweat and smoke. Standing lost in thought, suitcase on the floor, cats circling my feet inquiring after my well-being, and inviting me to reciprocate in kind, the house without warning gave a little shudder and all the lights went out. It was suddenly, deeply dark. When they did not immediately flicker back on, I thought, “Well, at least I wasn’t in the shower yet,” and felt my way to the drawer where the flashlight normally languishes year-round, along with pencil stubs and pinochle cards. I found it, and turned it on.
It was a light that really didn’t. Guess those batteries had been there longer than I’d realized. Recalling Jack’s familiar complaint that we “never have enough light in this house”, and mentally promising him that I would make that more of a priority, I inched to the spare batteries in my office and put fresh ones in my flashlight. Ahhh—that was more like it. The sudden, steady beam was a welcome sight in my darkened room, much as I have found the simplest deeds of kindness and compassion illuminate dark and difficult days.
Anyway, right about then, the lights whooshed on all over, and that felt even better. I fed the cats, ate a snack, and stepped into the shower. I was feeling revived and grateful for hot running water when the lights went out again.
And this time they stayed out!
In the continued darkness, with all the usual hums suspended, a quiet sound intruded on my consciousness. It sounded like this: sssssssssssssssssssss.
And you know anything that goes sssssssssssssssssss can’t be good.
Eventually I located the source. The water filter under the kitchen sink had sprung a tiny leak, and was spraying a fine mist in the cabinet. Since I had been gone 24 hours, I was not sure when it had started, but it had been enough to soak the base of the cabinet anyway. Simultaneously I thought – I need to be wise – I can’t ask Jack — (Thanks, baby, for all the broken, beeping things you ever fixed in our lives ) – Okay, I will find out what to do and will do it – I know God will help – What should I do and in what order? I got up the nerve to call my friend to ask him where the source of water could be shut off, and though it was 11 pm, this friend graciously declared ‘No, he hadn’t been sleeping, just watching golf’, and directed me step by step how to shut it off. (Which illustrates two more gifts we can give people who find themselves in the dark – the solid, comforting provision of our companionship and knowledge.)
Next, I needed to find out just where all that water had gone. Like Nancy Drew on a mission, I shone my beam of light all the way down the stairs and out into the garage. Ah. Yes. The water had dripped, and dripped, and dripped through the ceiling, across the floor, and out to the driveway. But the part that made my heart sink was seeing that the water had fallen on many of Jack’s tools.
There lay trays and trays of nails of all sizes, screws of all sizes, router bits of all sizes (are we sensing a theme here?), drill bits of all sizes… and all of them were submerged in pools of water. Clamps, drills, planers. His Bosch skil saw and Festool palm sander. Sharpening stones, saw blades, hand chisels. Levels, large and small. Measuring tapes, rulers, more clamps. The smell of sawdust, water and rust hung in the air.
Well, I couldn’t have that. I located rags and started drying. Piece by piece, in the stillness of the night, I dried off the tools of Jack’s trade and lay them side by side on a nearby counter. I found myself wishing I knew all their names and functions. I did know a few, but most I could only describe by appearance. Rippled. Smooth. Heavy. Light. Sharp. Blunt. New. Old. Very old.
Over the course of the next two hours, they provided a deep connection to the man who knew each one by name and had used them with skill for decades. I entered his world through the tools he’d selected, used, sharpened, oiled, valued, replaced. They’d all had a place, they’d all had a purpose, as can be rightly said that we all have a place and a purpose.
Handling Jack’s tools was not like wandering the aisles at Home Depot, idly turning over freshly packaged promises of Speed! Success! And Hardware Happiness! In Decorator Colors! (And for only $$$$!) Rather, it was intensely personal, as if I was touching Jack’s own familiar, worn, knowledgeable hands again. As each saw blade and nail set rested in my inexperienced hands, I felt connected to history. I felt connected to his plans and projects, his knowledge and skill. His were the hands that had last touched everything I was now handling. In the quiet, dim garage, in the middle of that night, I fell in love with him all over again.
And I thought: What insights could we have into those we love if we did not wait for the lights to go out and time to stop, but rather now intentionally entered their worlds through the tools of their trade, and the things they value, the stuff that interests them? What if we set aside our own preoccupations and heard with fresh ears their passion for motorcycles or gardening or homeschooling or photography or missions or banking? What facets of life are just within reach, what insights, waiting to help us meet others on their turf and love them now, while we can?
The lights whooshed on again. The house resumed its humming. And I went to bed with much food for thought.