The Flashlight

A few weeks ago, our air conditioner broke—you know—that week when it was 90+ every day. Justin asked me to accompany him outside, bringing with me two things: a flashlight and dental floss. I then began to do what I do best.

I whined. I grumbled. I wanted to know why in the WORLD he needed dental floss for an air conditioner.

I wish I could say that I cheered him on as I watched him work, weaving floss through the wires like he was knitting a sweater. But I didn’t.

I huffed and I puffed. I didn’t blow the house down like the big bad wolf but it wasn’t for a lack of trying.

I will spare you our Dr. Phil episode and just say—it escalated.

I sat there afterward, brooding. And then I realized it was getting cooler. He had taken something I don’t even use to fix my cavity-ridden teeth and—without my help—maneuvered it to get the air started back again.

Talk about ordering a slice of humble pie.

I would be a liar-liar-pants-on-fire if I said that moment propelled me into a deep love for holding flashlights. It didn’t. It’s not as fun as they make it look on CSI: Miami.

But I realized how that must have made him feel; I wanted him to fix this problem— the me-being-hot-and perspiring-all- over-my-couch thing—but I didn’t want to be a part of the solution. I didn’t want to wait around and see if it could be done. And I didn’t even do this silently. I was a chatterbox of negativity. One more mosquito bite and I probably could have been arrested for neighborhood disturbance.

You may wonder why I put all my dirty wife laundry out on the line for the neighbors to see (ya’ll being my neighbors, of course).

It’s because I am starting to find that my struggles as a wife often parallel my struggles as a Christian.

And let’s be real: I have a hard time waiting around for answers. I want them. I do.

But I am more willing to say “Prove it” to God than I am “I am here. Use me.”

I am more likely to rattle off my life problems than I am to actively participate in solving them.

And I often find myself fulfilling my “help people” quota before arriving home to help my husband.

The other night, I was assigned flashlight duty again; this time, I probably would have received a B+ for effort. I’m waiting for my call any time now to be on the cover of “Southern Living.”

It goes without saying that “labors of love” are not my love language; in fact, they’re probably the cause of not so nice language.

But like Justin, God doesn’t expect much from me; he doesn’t need me to be the brains behind an AC root canal; he doesn’t need me to weave the plans; he doesn’t even need me to utter a word.

He just needs me to be available; he needs me to be agreeable; he needs me to just hold the stinkin’ flashlight.

And when I am willing, I will probably find that the end result is pretty cool too.