No Quick Fix

Some things are easier than others to fix. Without the right tools, the right materials, the right knowhow, the energy, you might as well forget it -- unless you're McGyver. I'm no mechanical queen, but I've been single a long time and have learned to do a good bit on my own.

When the garbage disposal jammed, I fixed it. When the bathtub faucet leaked, I fixed that, too. When the motion sensor porch light broke (ok, when I broke it with the end of the broom handle), I replaced and rewired it. And even when the dryer had to be replaced and that scary 220-volt outlet switched out, I did that, too. Sticky locks -- got it. Ill hanging cabinet doors -- no sweat. A myriad boo-boos, head bonks, knee bashes, and belly aches -- I can manage those.

But there are some things I'm no good at fixing.

My son ripped his ear half off in a football practice once. I couldn't fix that. We went to the E.R. and someone with all the right stuff put Humpty Dumpty together again. When the timing belt went bad in my convertible and a fallen tree knocked the electrical wiring from my house, I called in the experts.

And that's just fine.

It's fine because (and it took me a very long time to learn this) no one is supposed to do everything all alone. The needs we have draw us to other people. We are communal creatures, made to support and help one another, and yet our society has turned isolationist. When's the last time you borrowed a cup of sugar from a neighbor? Or even talked to your neighbor? For some errant reason, we pride ourselves in individuality, in independence.

Bunk.

I was at the fabric store yesterday, looking for curtain fabric for a friend who needs curtains (if only to make me feel better about pulling the fitted sheet down from the kitchen window), when a little man came into the store. I heard him say to the clerk, "I bet you know what I'm looking for."

"Velcro?" she guessed.

He laughed and shook his head, "No. I need someone to make me some pillows. Do you know anyone who does that?"

"No," she answered, a little condescending in her reply. No doubt she was thinking, Now how on EARTH would I have known THAT?

Perhaps she was new and uninformed of the history of the store. She was quite young. In a twinkling, another, more kindly clerk, chimed in. "We used to have a bulletin board with names of people posting services like that, but it's gone." He thanked her sweetly, grateful, no doubt, both for the kind reply and the confirmation that the information source he remembered was not a total fabrication in his mind.

I thought he had given up and left, but I nearly ran over him when I turned a corner in the upholstery section. We were both stretching our hopes a little, both seeking what we would not find.

He repeated his question to me. Now, really, I can make pillows. But what he actually wanted was new covers for his sofa cushions, a little out of my seamstressing expertise, although I knew that if my mother didn't live 800 miles away, she could have easily done the job. Hating to leave him completely empty-handed, I suggested, "What you should do is to drive out of here and down the street until you come to a church with an open office. Go inside and ask if they have any members who might help you. Every church has somebody who sews."

His face lit up as it broke into precious smile. "Thank you," he replied. "That's just what I'll do."

I don't know if he did or did not go. But I do know that sometimes, when things need fixing, the place to go is where the family of God gather. The Divine concept of community -- whether in a church building or camp or school or even on your block -- is that we help one another, bearing one another's burdens, sharing lives in tough times so that we can celebrate together, too.

I'm so glad I'm a part of the family of God because we're fixin' to serve Him.