From beach to beige...Reconditioning Coleman and killing Brad

Ahhh...a church work day. My favorite. "Couldn't I just haiku about it instead," I whined (and then did...). I should point out, at this time, that every spiritual inventory that I have taken up to this point has indicated that my gifts include sarcasm and mockery rather than sweeping and mopping. I once had a ka-zillion year-old Scottish woman wrestle a mop out of my hands because I wasn't doing it right. Brad was disgusted last year, when, engaged in that pioneer-era activity of beating a rug, I instead broke the broom. But, team player that I was, I agreed to go ("Will there be snacks? I asked. "I think they're serving pizza for lunch," Brad answered. "Okay...I'm in," I consented).

I carried bookshelf units backwards down steep stairs. "Since when did "Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret become classified as a Christian book," I asked. "Did you know that Judy Blume is one of the most banned authors of all time," Sydney huffed as we negotiated a tight corner landing. "But she wrote Tales of a 4th Grade Nothing," I protested, puffing my way down the second flight. Jealousy fueled my remaining strength, providing the necessary adrenaline to deliver the bookcase unit and steal the book. "Becoming a banned author is on my bucket list," I whispered to Sydney as we headed back upstairs. "So is going to jail, apparently," she whispered back.

Taping was next. Syd and I watched enviously as a horde of teenagers (who must host a spin-off of "This Old House" called "This Old Church"), unraveled an entire roll of blue painter's tape along the length of the molding. "Mom, did you see that," Sydney said, wide-eyed as she carefully ripped off twelve to twenty-four inch sections for me to meticulously put in place. "Don't let them see you sweat," I consoled, surreptitiously wiping sweat from my own brow.

And what was Brad doing this whole time while Sydney and I were working ourselves to death? Nothing! That's what! Yeah...Mr. Mosiman decided to find a comfy, out-of-the-way place and loll away the day. "Uh...Dad," Sydney asked, squinting up at him at his perch atop a ten-foot ladder, "Do you realize that you're breaking at least four of the rules posted on the ladder?' "Drat the luck," I muttered, "another bucket list item that he beat me to!" As Brad worked to wrestle static-y plastic over the stained glass windows, I worked to wrestle the "good" scissors away from one of the project foremen. "Look, I'll leave my wedding ring as collateral," I negotiated, showing him how I had hacked away at the next piece of plastic, first with the blunt scissors and then finally with my teeth. Victorious, I carried the scissors around the church like the Olympic Torch before immediately cutting the next piece of plastic too short. And then the next piece. Using the handy blue tape, Syd and I "lengthened the hem" on the stainglass shrouds. Brad, happy with the ingenuity of his family, was proud to hang them up.

On tip-toe (breaking Rule #3) and reaching several feet over his head (Rule #11), Brad resembled one of the pole-cat riders from "Mad Max's" Fury Road. As I watched a parade of people push past the ladder where it was situated on a slant (Rule #7), balanced only by hymnals (That should have been Rule #19 but there wasn't any more room for rules left on the ladder's "List of Rules"), I realized my husband was actually more of a pinata. As people painted and attached plastic to the floor trim around him, I stopped reading the rules and started gripping the ladder, holding one rigid arm out like a defensive linebacker. "Great sports analogy, Mom!" Sydney said. "Thanks," I smiled humbly.

Sydney and I watched sadly as the blue color that inspired the painting of her second bedroom quickly disappeared thanks to an army of accomplished painters. Our pastor, who I think works part-time for a crayon company inventing new colors, decided on beige in order to make the stainglass windows "pop." "They're going to pop all right," I said, nudging Sydney, "when the next person who squeezes past that ladder causes your father to pop right through it." Unable to watch anymore, I closed my eyes and sent up a quick prayer. "Are you there, God? It's me, Amy."