It Takes Two

He was tall, dark, and handsome, with a natural curl in his dark brown hair, twin dimples, a jawline chiseled like Michelangelo’s David, and sparkling milk chocolate eyes. He set off fireworks in my heart. All I could do was stare, thinking, Man, that guy would look great in my wedding pictures.

Fortunately for me, he was not only gorgeous, but checked all the boxes: funny, intelligent, hardworking, kind, and a mountain of faith.

After eleven months of more staring, I said, “I do, I do! Oh yes, I do!” Thankfully, he did too. We were in love, euphoric, eager to start our lives, excited to grow old together. And I was right; he made our wedding album look marvelous.

I never dreamt that five kids and twenty-eight years later, I would whisper in his ear, “Baby, just go,” then watch the most beautiful, wonderful man in the world, plagued with pancreatic cancer, take his last breath.

I was alone. It was not what I expected. Not what I wanted. Not what I signed up for.

Twelve years have passed—twelve very educational years. For a while, I refused to change a lightbulb. That was his job. I grumbled down the driveway on trash day, let the grass grow too long, and cursed at the snow shovel. Now I live in a steel-and-concrete high rise with a trash chute down the hall, a covered parking garage, and a city-maintained park across the street. But I can change a flat tire, fix a washing machine, and tile a backsplash, grout and all.

I feel very empowered, very proud of my aloneness skills. I am full of can-do attitude, nothing-can-stop-me fortitude, and a little too much takeout food. But, hey, who wants to cook for one? I am so happy, maybe even a little sassy, about things I can do all by myself. Like Proverbs 31:25 says, “She is clothed in strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future.”

I stopped laughing the day I bought a new mattress.

I got home from work to find a black box the size of my eleven-year-old grandson on the loading dock. Immediately, all of that sass and pride did a swan dive into a water waste treatment plant. Weighing in at 150 pounds, a good twenty-five pounds more than my five-foot-two frame weighs at the end of Lent just before breaking out the Peeps, the box was daunting.

A red four-wheel flatbed cart mocked me from the corner. That hunk of steel had no confidence in my ability to lift the overweight carton onto its back. I didn’t have much confidence either, but I was not about to let it see me sweat.

I grabbed the cart firmly, showing it who’s boss, and yanked it over to the burdensome box. I waited for a couple of minutes, hoping that the package would jump aboard on its own. It didn’t happen.

Since it was up on its end, I thought I could just knock the thing over and have it magically land on the cart. I gave a vigorous push. As soon as the box made contact, the cocky cart rolled away with a look-who’s-laughing-now smirk.

I grabbed that obnoxious cart again and put it up against the wall this time. I dragged the behemoth box over to it, stood it up on end, backed up a couple of steps, then ran at it lowering my shoulder like a linebacker. Ha! This time the contentious cart had nowhere to go. With the box now leaning on its edge, it took everything I had to lift from the bottom and shove it onto its ride.

With no problems rolling it into the freight elevator, I started getting a bit of my juju back. Looking down at the cart, I grinned. Yep! A point for the good guys. But juju left the building as soon as the elevator doors opened, exposing a sharp turn to my condo. Pushing, pulling, back and forth, I was finally heading down the hall. I started talking to myself, a habit I picked up just like food delivery. “What am I doing? Four hundred people live in this building. I don’t have anything to prove. I can ask for help. It’s not showing weakness, it’s just practical. Who wouldn’t ask for help?”

Using my phone-a-friend, I called Meegan. She sounded very chipper. She obviously hadn’t tangoed with a box and cart today.

“Meegan! I am so happy to hear your voice. (Really, really happy.) How’s Mike’s back?”

“Fine, why?”

“Well, I bought this mattress; it’s so heavy. I just need some help getting it into my bedroom.”

“Sorry, we’re already in our jammies.” Click.

Hmmm, maybe she didn’t relish the thought of her husband helping this single lady with her bed. Sorry, indeed.

The pain of a cart barely fit through my door. I moved things out of the way, clearing a path to get as close as possible to my bed’s frame. I grabbed a pair of scissors to cut open this giant thorn in my side, not an easy task. Fortunately, the instruction book was right on top. I love instructions.

Let’s see. “Step one: make sure to have two people.” Funny.

“Step two: pull the plastic tab, then start removing the plastic from around the mattress.”

I didn’t bother to read on; the shrink-wrapped mattress had to first move from the cart to the bed. I strained to set it up on end and tried the shove-it-over move again. Stunned that it worked without anything rolling away, my muscles willed all 150 pounds to where it needed to be.

Now, plastic tab. I scoured the thing. There was no plastic tab. I hate instructions.

I started cutting and unrolling, cutting and unrolling. Suddenly, the mattress started expanding. The king-size thing completely overtook me. Pictures fell off the walls, nightstands tipped over, and lamps crashed to the floor. It got bigger and bigger and bigger. I thought it would suffocate me and grow to fill the whole room. But by some miracle, like lifting a fallen car to save someone’s life, I rose to new heights, adrenaline pulsing through my veins, I forced the mattress into its place right side up. I conquered the beast. Oh, the sweet, sweet taste of victory.

Funny, isn’t it, that I thought I was alone? Tackling new challenges, learning new skills, adapting to new ways all give me a sense of accomplishment. But sometimes that “I-can-do-it-all-by-myself” attitude leaves God in the dust. I didn’t have an extra pair of arms to wrestle the mattress, but I am never without arms embracing me. Too often, I don’t take the time to be grateful and recognize that God is always present. Maybe my phone-a-friend should have gone to the Most High instead of the eighth floor. In the end, I think I got a little help without even asking for it. Because he is always there, he always loves, and love never fails.

“Do not be afraid or discouraged. For the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.” (Josh. 1:9 NLT)

Kim Sorrelle is an entrepreneur, director of a humanitarian organization, and lover of all people. Kim’s work has her splitting time between her home in Michigan and the places Haiti and the Dominican Republic. As a young child, Kim would conjure up stories with her imagination, sharing them with anyone who would listen. The thrill of language and creation she first discovered as a child has never gone away. Today Kim writes stories from her heart, sharing her experiences in life, in love, and her passion for serving. Find her at KimSorrelle.com.

Photograph © Rubhi Sutisna, used with permission