Defy Convention
"How Can I Help?"
When my husband first passed away, so many kind and generous friends offered to help me. “What can I do?” they would say. Always knowing that a good sense of humor helps in any crisis, I would reply with, “How good are you at cleaning pond filters?”
To watch their faces fall, and then there would be the quick pivot, ending in “no” was typical. Sometimes there would be a suggestion to call so-and-so, or perhaps my request would be met with a small shrug. I wasn’t being cruel; I just needed help with the two ponds, both with waterfalls, filled with fish, tadpoles, and small pond lilies that bloom, which are part of my very small front yard.
My husband was obsessed with trains, and he built the most amazing garden railroad in our front yard, complete with a multitude of intricate wooden trestles, which seemed to begin deteriorating the minute he left this earth. It was a magical place where the child in everyone, no matter what their age, came popping out with a big grin.
When you have a living partner, especially over multiple decades like I did. You tend to divide up the chores, and believe you me, I wanted nothing to do with cleaning the pond. It was a messy affair that took place in my large, white ‘farmhouse’ kitchen sink. So, when James suddenly took off for his new adventure, I was left with so many things that he had always taken care of. And of course, I wanted to keep the ponds going; their friendly trickle an added bonus of sitting on the front porch, and it is, of course, a constant reminder of his presence
Over time, the railroad has been slowly dismantled because of its required high maintenance, coupled with the silence of its rails, no more happy times where grandchildren squeal and chase after the engines trailing real steam plumes. No shouts of “be careful” and “it will burn you if you touch it.”
Literally starting from the first question of “how can we help?” I began fretting about how I was going to get those freaking filters clean. As the months added up, I could not find anyone to help me. I gradually realized I would have to be the one to fix this, and I would have to figure it out on my own.
Yesterday, not only did I service the first pond filter, but I also replaced the worn filters with new ones, which were sorely needed.
If you ever ordered sea horses from an ad on the back of a comic book, like I did. The experience had a similar element to it. Not one to read instructions, I somehow gleaned from the advertisements while ordering that you put the sponge filters in water to let them soak and expand. They ballooned from two smashed pancakes into something miraculous that was just the right size.
I woke up knowing today is the day, and without a lot of trauma drama, I serviced the damn pond!
I never could have done this with those months of fretting, which for me is kind of prayer-like. I tend to draw the great Creator into the conversation with myself, without the official references to certain deities who have all been given male pronouns.
In recent months, I have learned how to weed-eat my small patch of grass, I have learned to take out the garbage without feeling sorry for myself, and now I have learned how to clean the pond filters, too. The process is a lot like writing; you just put one word in front of another until you have something.
Celebrating our wins, no matter how small, in this terrible time of fascism in our country, is important. With all this said, there are children everywhere who go to sleep hungry, not just in China, but in our own country, so full of wealth, and my problems are so very small, but my faith is large, so I must keep asking, “How can I help?”