Precious

As if mail delivery wasn't hard enough.

So it’s melty over here. 

That’s not a term folks like Cliff Mass use but it’s accurate.  Our snowpocalypse is now officially a slushpocalypse and frankly the population at large is a bit frayed.  Never before have people looked so happy to be out in the grocery stores and some were even seen singing in bank lineups.  For those hit worst by the storm, Friday was the first day it was possible for some to leave their cul-de-sacs and even then prayers were raised as slush and ice forced tires into arbitrary and bizarre lanes that scared many drivers.  If you are one of the many who live where snow is a season not an event, you are doubtless beyond wondering what our problem is and why Seattle deems itself so flipping news-worthy for what was a fairly normal snowfall.   

I think it’s because we are so darn precious.

It was midway through the second week when I started to feel like my precious family was too much of a good thing.  Running the dryer filled with soggy hats and scarves had become a daily occurrence and I even moved a bath mat to the foyer to deal with all the excess moisture coming in the front door.  Hanging up coats was part of my morning routine and I was having trouble discerning the difference between the socks and gloves that littered the hallway.  My children had given up speaking with each other and picked of the maddening habit of answering one another in musical numbers.  If one more child sang one more line of Evan Hansen, I was going to pitch them outside and let them be found in spring.  My hubby was no better, his musical responses were based off Moana and if the sea called to him again I was willing to make the arrangements to see how far he would go.  It was a time of feeling constrained which doesn’t happen frequently in our climate.   

Precious is the word that comes to the fore when things go wrong for communities.  In times of need people are capable of doing the most amazing and kind things.  Then there are the stupid things people do which can be relatively precious as well, if you are inclined to give folks a lot of grace and remember your own less stellar moments. Mine came when I decided to walk my daughter through a neighborhood field to her friend’s.  It was only a mile, but a mile in knee deep snow with no sidewalks was a new experience for both of us.  It would have been a delightful outing if I had the correct footwear.  However, my boots had been taken by different children, leaving me to try to figure out what to wear to make our epic trek.  Salvation came in the form of a pair of boots a friend had purchased for the end of the year drama production.  This pair was a steal for $5.  They looked great and if one overlooked the fact the treads on the soles had been worn off entirely, then you would agree you had a great pair of stage boots. 

Imagine my ingenuity then, when I decided these boots would be “just fine” for walking to our friends’ house.  To counteract the slippery-as-death soles I grabbed my beach walking stick, to help me navigate.  The results were about as disastrous as you could imagine.  To start, I live on a significant hill.  Secondly, our hill had iced over and was topped with 6 inches of compact snow, giving it the "descent of death" vibe for those dumb enough to venture out in sub par foot wear.  I realized it wasn’t going well when I made it to the tire tracks in the road and started to descend the hill without actually moving.  I was sliding down the hill without the ability to stop, which impressed my little, who decided to help by shouting which way I should be pushing off the walking stick, aka "rudder”, to miss landing in a snow bank.  It didn’t much work.  The entire trek was laced with momentary pauses wherein I would be vertical one moment, then completely horizontal the next, looking into the white grey sky while snowflakes landed on my lashes.  Every time I landed with a surreal “whump” in the soft snow, my child would say, “Um, are you going to get up soon?”   It wasn’t my finest hour, 105 minutes actually, but who’s counting?

The mailmen in my area had precious moments as well.  In the first wave of the snowpocalypse we had a Postman who came down the hill in his van with chains.  Though I didn’t witness it, I found him on our sidewalk/front yard having lost a chain during his ascent.  “Do you need a shovel?” I called, coming out of the house to check on the hummingbird feeder.  “Oh no, I’m fine thank you! I just lost the rear chain; I’ve got it back on now.” He called out confidently.  Secretly, I was a bit worried for him; I have observed that chains can give drivers a false sense of security around hills.  When he reached the top of the road I heard him spinning out but he managed somehow because he wasn’t outside when I ventured out for a walk half an hour later.   My suspicions were proved true however when, 20 minutes later, I rounded a corner and found the same Postie who had just sideswiped some mailboxes.  At that moment, 5 men were trying to maneuver his van out of the ditch.  It was an epic moment, man against snow against ditch against the postal service; the epitome of an extreme survival documentary. I didn’t stay to watch however, as it wasn’t a place for a woman; kind of like in the old days when only men attended boxing matches.  There was a limit to the number of bad ideas I could stomach in a day.    

So on Friday when I saw a large postal truck coming down our hill, I groaned in despair.  “What is he doing?” I asked no one in particular, as he roared down the hill.  “This is not going to end well.”  

“But there is some bare concrete out there Mum and it looks like he has chains,” my eldest replied looking out the window.  “I remain unconvinced.” I replied.

I have mentioned that I live on a hill but I have not confessed is that my home occupies a very specific location on this inclined plane.  Khan Academy has great videos explaining “the components of the force due to gravity that are parallel and perpendicular to the surface of an inclined plane.”  I can’t understand these videos at all but I do know I live at the exact spot on the hill that gravity asserts itself in an undeniable way and cars blow their engines while their drivers attempt to deny the existence of physics and Khan Academy videos. 

I live where cars die.

Which is why I can recognize the sound of a postal truck in distress.  Putting on my boots with fantastic traction, I sauntered down the hill to the stranded postal worker.  “Bless your heart.  You are stuck.”  (Bless, then state the obvious, I think I read that in a Christian bestseller.)  “I know.” He was a few years my junior and still feeling upbeat.  “I saw the pavement and thought I could make it.”

“Your first mistake good sir, this hill is known for its siren song.  The pavement calls out but it really wants to kill you.  Were you just feeling brave?”

“We have so much mail." He groaned. " We are so behind in our deliveries, I woke up this morning and thought, ‘Today I’m gonna try get it done.’” He swung his arm in an atta-boy motion to prove his initial enthusiasm.

“And now the universe is punishing you?” I queried.

“Exactly.”

“Would you like a shovel?  I’m not sure if it will help, but I have one handy.”

“That would be great.”

And with that, Mr. Mailman walked up the hill and borrowed the shovel from my front step. We chatted about the snowpocalyse some more and he set off down the hill to dig himself out.  Fifteen minutes later I heard the familiar whine of sliding wheels followed by silence.  When I next stuck my head out the door, I saw two cars behind the postman and a little group gathering.  I ventured back outside to check on everyone’s well being.  When I arrived my immediate concern was for Mr. Postman who looked like he was going to have a heart attack.  Everyone else looked healthy and was filled with helpful suggestions.  There was a small woman with 4 wheel drive (her truck had 4 wheel drive, not her) who clearly wanted Mr. Postman to get out of her way.  Mr. Postman would have liked nothing more than to disappear, which is probably why he went back into the truck and tromped on the gas once more and managed to rip the chains clear off the back right wheel.  That was a fairly low point for all of us.  About then, a fellow named Larry showed up with half a bag of cat litter.  I thought this was and entirely awesome offering to a Post office funded community event.  Larry, not deterred by his humble offering, spread it under the wheels and encouraged Mr. Postman to try again.  Mr. Postman complied and the van actually moved about a foot, which is why Mr. Postman got excited, floored his vehicle and ended up blowing the remaining chain and wrapping it around the back left axle.   The van made a horrible banging noise, shuddered and Postman cut the engine. Larry lamented not having a full bag of cat litter and the passing of his cat which left him at a deficit on numerous levels.

“I think,” said our friend Mr. Postman (because by now we were all friends), “I’m gonna have to call this in.”  We agreed this was the sensible thing to do and offered our congratulations for a solid attempt at problem solving.  People took turns chatting with Mr. Postman while he awaiting the tow truck which came about an hour later.  It was pretty near the most exciting thing that had happened in two weeks on our street. 

It was precious.

And so I am thinking of you my friend as you wait before the Lord for solutions and answers to your many needs.  I know you have “called it in,” praying, waiting and hoping for something to change.  You are waiting for this trial to be over, so that you might get moving again.  I wanted to remind you that you are precious.  Precious when you fall, precious when you try and precious when all you can do is wait.  I’m praying that you might be encouraged by the care that is around you even when it proves not to hold the answer.  Waiting for the Lord is not wasted time for those who believe. 

Praying you have the grace to endure.

xoxKaren