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I’ll admit it – that phrase makes me cringe.  I’m very comfortable not knowing just how much I can handle.  Seriously. Its not like I don’t push myself, but I prefer to choose when and how far.

Last week when my husband and son were at Scout camp, I worked on refinishing a dresser.  I did this in spite of my distrust of power tools – that’s my husband’s turf.  But before they left, he showed me how to use the sander.  I actually discovered that I enjoy sanding.

See?  I can push myself.

Sunday when they left town, I went out on the patio and sanded.  When I came back in and pulled off my dust mask, I detected a certain funk.  I quickly found the kitchen trash can complete with a wrapper for the chicken we’d had two nights before.  Problem solved.

But Monday the funk was still there and it was strongest under the kitchen sink.  I found our drip jar complete with mold.  Out it went.

Problem solved?

No dice.

Oh no.

I’d been careful not to think about the mouse traps.  Our town is over-run with mice and voles.  Cute, cute, cute but I do not share kitchen space with rodents.  Not a chance.  But the one thing that I hate more than a mouse in my kitchen is a dead mouse in my kitchen.  Not once had I ever dealt with a mouse trap which is obviously also my husband’s turf.

I vaguely recalled my husband telling me that there was a trap under the sink.  I looked but didn’t see it.  I worked one shoulder through the door.  Ack!   I’d found both the trap and the smell.

But I’d found it at midnight.  Who in the heck was going to come out and get a mouse out of my kitchen at midnight.  My husband was two and half hours away.  My brother-in-law would do it but not til morning and I wanted that thing out.

“God, who should I call?
“Come on, God. There has to be someone.
“I’m counting on You!”

And then it popped into my head.  God never gives you more than you can handle.

“You have so got to be kidding!”  I shouted at kitchen ceiling.  “I have never one time in my entire life dealt with a mouse trap.  Not once.”

But apparently God was not kidding, because a plan started to come together.  I clipped back my hair, put on my bandana and got the dust mask I used for sanding.  Then I put on my husband’s jeans and went to the garage for a shovel.  Yes, a shovel.  God might not give me more than I could handle, but no way was I going to touch it.

It took three tries to snag the trap with the shovel but I finally saw it from my peripheral vision.  One turn of my wrist and it slipped into the kitchen trash can.  Back out on the patio, where I left the can with the bag tied shut, I did a victory lap.  I’d done it!

At camp a day later, I told my husband about my not-so-close encounter.  “You can’t fit a shovel under the sink!”

I can and I did.  All it took was a substantial nudge.




Have a Mary Little Christmas

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