I am creeping back to where all reality ceases to prevail and into that dream about past times I don’t want to miss. I notice the sound of my step dad knocking on the door. It’s seven. The revival of this dream is redundant. I lay there like a paramedic hoping for my patient to spring back to life… but the dream is lost.
I manage to find the words “Yeah, what’s up?” in this morning catastrophe. Without hesitation, the voice from behind the door says, “Uncle Doug’s basement was flooded during the storm last night and he needs help digging a drainage line out to the road.”
Squinting my eyes, I take in the familiar surroundings. As my body fights my mind’s power, I attain to strength to throw on my blue jeans and grab my work gloves.
That morning greeted me with a slap-in-the-face wakeup call that even Nostradamus could not have predicted. Four blisters and five hours later we saw the final stretch. I cleared my brow, and unknowingly I applied the cheapest make-up ever worn. Dirt. After five hours in the sun, my Wal-Mart brand work gloves were demoted to holey mitts that even a bum wouldn’t want. New holes brought character to the blue jeans that can no longer be called blue. It was a Saturday well spent.
Changing in the garage, I combed through my mud-crusted hair. The faithful jeans rested at my feet. The Wal-Mart brand gloves were in the trash. I thanked them for their time and effort. Reflecting on my labor, my muscles rang with pain. I felt like I too bore holes and looking down at the heap of clothes, I could not deny that I too am covered in dirt.
I relate to the gloves and the jeans--maybe not in a physical way, but in a way that more closely defines who I am, a person who is always on stand-by and ready to help a person in need. As I have learned, I can afford to rip holes or get dirt on me because I know that with every scratch, I better the world around me.