A little bit of love

I tend to miss calls.  A lot.  I'm a klutz, and I don't want to drop my phone all the time because, let's face it, if my things can be damaged, they will be.  I got into the habit of keeping phones and things in my backpack, or purse, or zipped jacket pocket in an attempt to keep it safe.

I missed a call from my dad, and he left a voicemail, which is slightly out-of-the-ordinary.  And as I walked through the practice room hallway, I listened to his message for me.  It started with a very short greeting and then an explanation of what he had been doing just previous to his call to me.  He had  been working on a leak in the sprinkler system.

I stopped in my tracks.  Oooooooh NO!  I spent a portion of my time over Christmas break cleaning out a little bit of the garage.  I found so many sprinkler heads and plumbing equipment.  I put them all in the same area.  Hearing this message, my mind raced.  I moved all the things and he can't find them, something fell on the shelves and blocked the bottom shelf where all of the sprinklers are, I didn't mark the bucket clearly and he can't see the label, I KNEW I should have tracked down a black sharpie instead of a blue one, I've messed up the cosmos, I missed his call and he was trying to ask me where I put the things, I'm not even sure I know what all the things are that I moved.

My father continued to express how much he loved me, and appreciated the slight organizing I had done in the garage.  He had found everything he needed quickly, right where it was supposed to be. And my little heart rate came slowly back down.  I thought about it for a moment, well, a lot of moments.  Living far away is hard.  I've come to realize that the way I express love is working for someone.  It is hard to work for someone, or with someone, when they are far away.  Whenever I'm home, I like to sedate worries, and slowly chip away at external stressors.  Sometimes it's putting in floor.  Sometimes it's screwing in more sheetrock around the windows.  Sometimes it is getting the dragging feet of my (beloved) siblings to follow me as I make a mess of myself and the backyard or the garage.  Sometimes those hours spent are met with resistance from just about every sided.  I'm so grateful that my father felt the need to call me, and I'm grateful that I didn't answer, because now I have an archived voicemail that I listen to every few days.  I'm grateful for a Heavenly Father who makes my efforts matter when I so desperately want to serve.