I groaned on Social Media about my house falling in disrepair around me, and got some immediate messages with offers of help.
Last evening, the husband of a former client (now friend) stopped by to assess my situation. He diagnosed two damaged fences and gave advice about what to ask a fence person to do. He fixed a broken cupboard door, showed me what needed to be repaired on another, carried some bags of clothes to my car for subsequent donation, and walked around my house saying how much he liked the place.
Your house isn’t falling apart, he admonished me. You just need a little help. And a weekly visit from such a cheerful guy, I thought to myself. And a warm smile, and a natter in the driveway standing over the yard hoping for rain to water the “deep shade” seed mix that I broke my body planting.
An hour later, another friend’s husband (also a friend, I suppose you could say) made a date to come glue the cracked cabinet door, at the tail end of a day when two other people have planned to come help me clean the basement. I’m feeling that the angels heard my cries for help Sunday, as I knelt in the front yard with the sprinkler barraging my back.
I had just discovered that someone had hanger-wired my side gate to a rotted 4 x 8 rather than effecting a genuine repair. I have no idea who, or when. I can only imagine why. The post has been deteriorating for several years, simultaneous with my own descent. Unlike that piece of wood, I’ve still got some life in my veins. I feel it surging, summoned by the voices of the angels heralding me from unexpected places.
It’s the twenty-sixth day of the fortieth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.