Sunday, October 6, 2013

Help Needed, and Found


 


Glancing out the window this morning, we spotted several glistening spiderwebs through the fog. Jack turned to me excitedly.

"Wasn't that nice of the spiders?" he asked. "They knew all of our stuff is on its way to England, so they decided to help us decorate for Halloween."

Because sometimes, we all need a little help, even from our arachnid friends.



We are knee-deep into this skipping-the-pond business. Our beloved van (named Austen Tacious Odyssey, just so you know) is gone. The movers came over a week ago and took the majority of our things. So in essence, we're camping out in our house for a month.

Our house looks like the world's youngest frat party. Dixie and sippie cups mingle freely; a Boppy lies on top of an empty pizza box; our living room is a collection of adult- and child-sized lawn chairs.

I never knew just how attached I was to metal forks and real glasses until now.

So I sent out an SOS to our friends. And boy, did they answer.



Within a few hours, we had offers for dinner, loans of cooking supplies and toys (the top two needed items in the Kupper household) and a car from friends and relative near and far. As someone who likes to be doing the helping and not the receiving, it can be hard to accept.

As I explained to Nick during a cry-fest last week, my house is like my report card. My housekeeping is like my performance review. And when movers see me in my bathrobe, trying to frantically pack my *ahem* lingerie myself, I feel like I'm getting a D-.

"These are my things!" I sobbed to Nick. "And they're probably noticing how unorganized this house is compared to the last one they packed!"

Nick, in his husbandly wisdom, just handed me my running shoes and told me, in a nice way, to get lost. I thanked him and scooched out of there.

But, like the spiderwebs outside my door, I have to daily choose to see beauty in a less-than-perfect circumstance.



And the cuteness of a half-pint in a lawnchair.

I will go to 8 dinners at friends' homes in just as many days, drinking up the laughter of our Salemite friends and family one last time. With outstretched arms I will accept meals from my MOPS group, given to free up my evenings from cooking a casserole in a soup pot and mixed with a plastic knife.

I will swallow the "Oh, I'm fine and don't need help with anything!" excuses and breathe thanks for an extended community family, so willing to assist wherever needed.

I will pause and admire the fruits of the hard-working spiders, sent by their maker to decorate when I can't.