My Angels Wear Garden Gloves and Blue Jeans

I am a very independent person. Any immediate family members reading this will already be giggling and nodding as they read this. I think about something for a while, and then I go do it. I decided when I was fourteen that I wanted my patriarchal blessing. So I made the necessary appointment with the bishop and THEN I told my parents what I was doing. I think it surprised them a little bit. I decided I would audition for the show choir in my high school without any prodding from anyone else. It didn't occur to me to ask my parents about where I was going to college. I just knew I was going to BYU. And dancing on the ballroom tour team. And majoring in medical dietetics and minoring in Chinese (okay, so that only lasted for a few weeks until I found out how rigorous the program was going to be. It would interfere with ballroom, so I changed my mind). I pride myself on being able to do things myself. But life has a way of knocking us down a bit to remind us that we're not nearly so in charge as we like to think we are. And that's a good thing. It's healthy to be stripped of some hubris.

I finally had to ask for help this week. My husband is very busy being a headmaster of a burgeoning, blooming school, which has its glory, but like an ice berg, an awful lot of it is just blasted hard work behind the scenes. And really long hours. He's also learned over the past month that the exquisite pain in his right arm is thanks to two bulging disks in his neck. He's getting surgery to prevent long-term, permanent damage next week. Boy am I thankful for modern medicine. But between his long hours, current physical incapacity, and my own busy schedule of teaching, canning, mothering, and everything else, I was starting to feel drowned in it all. My yard, in spite of my best efforts, was starting to spin out of control, and I just couldn't manage that on my own.

Enter a wise, firm best friend named Karen. She knows my situation and knew I was hanging on by my toenails by the time I got to this week. She called our local Relief Society president, who made a few phone calls and brought out the Gardening Brigade tonight. These angels, who I know have very busy schedules of their own, brought their gloves, shovels, and energy to my back yard and literally dug right in. With what has been accumulating over the past couple of years (I kept telling myself I would find someone with a truck to help me haul stuff away) in yard debris, we cleaned out my garden, gave breathing space to my raspberries, and got it all ready for one last tilling. We filled two pick-up truck beds with what needs to be hauled away.

It was actually so fun. There were little kids who helped toss old tomato vines away -- when they weren't tossing tomatoes. We found a few tomatoes to save, which a toddler proceeded to skewer -- it was honestly hilarious to watch the delight on his face as he gleefully stabbed them with a dandelion digger. If I hadn't wanted to give those away to the volunteers I would have let him play Vlad the Impaler until every last tomato had disintegrated. I loved getting the chance to visit as I worked, both with kids and the adults. And I was glad to be able to share rolls, chili, and brownies with those who were able to stay. And visit some more.

This is what the kingdom of God is really about. It's not about sitting in meetings. Or dressing up to look a certain way. It's putting on jeans, work boots, and gloves and getting one's hands dirty while rubbing shoulders with others who are willing to sacrifice their precious time to help lift up your hanging hands and feeble knees. Even when it's hard to admit to the hanging hands in the first place.