Water, Water, Everywhere

By Karen O’Connor –

“I’m no plumber but I know a leak when I see one,” said Wanda. “Last week while putting away clean towels in the cabinet under the bathroom sink I noticed a puddle of water right in the middle of two stacks of towels. I turned on the faucet, then looked under the sink again, and sure enough, drip, drip, drip.”

Wanda flopped on the floor and sulked. This was one more problem in a day already filled to the brim. She imagined an exorbitant plumbing bill and days without access to the sink and, well what else could go wrong just before company arrived for a weeklong stay?

“Fred,” she called to her husband who was playing Chess with a friend in the family room. “Can you fix this?” she asked, pointing to the wet area, “or should I call a plumber?”

“I’ll take a look,” he said, then waved her off after examining the damage. “First I have to find my tools, then remove the pipe, do a little fiddling here and there, you know––so it might be some time before I get to it.”

Wanda let out a big sigh. She knew that could mean days or even weeks. Fred was not the handiest of men, though he liked to think he was. So she placed an empty pot on the cabinet floor to catch the water. “At least the towels will stay dry,” she murmured.

A few days later Wanda ran another load of wash. Later while stacking the fresh towels under the sink, she noticed the pot was about to overflow with the collected water. Thank heaven she looked!

Feeling annoyed that her husband had not repaired the damage, and frustrated that he had not at least emptied the pot every few hours she let out a few choice words. “You would think. . . he would at least. . . check it.”

Oh well . . . what else is new? She bent over and carefully removed the pot. One false move and the water would have soaked the entire room. She was grateful for steady hands.

“I’ll empty this thing right now,” she said to herself. “No sense in taking it all the way to the kitchen. I’ll dump it into the sink . . . no, not the sink,” she yelled, catching herself too late, as the water poured right back into the cabinet and spilled onto the floor!

“From six calamities he will rescue you; in seven no harm will befall you” (Job 5:19).

Oh, Those Senior Moments!

By Karen O’Connor –

I left the women’s luncheon feeling like a million. I made new friends, enjoyed a delicious meal, was inspired by the music, and felt great about my presentation as the keynote speaker. Then it happened. I walked out the front door of the banquet hall with two other women and I went blank. There in front of me was a sea of cars––but I had no idea where mine was located. I started walking––praying. Where are you little Escort?

I couldn’t lose my cool in front of these women. They were impressed with me. They thought I was a celebrity! They wanted more of my books and my autograph. “Do you have any extras in your car?” one asked.

“Sure,” I mumbled. “Authors always carry extra books.” (Now if I can just find my car.) “Why don’t you wait right here?” I suggested. “I’ll run to the car…” (if I can find it) “…and come back with the books signed and ready.”

“Oh no,” said another. “We’ll follow you. No sense in your walking all the way back. We’re parked in the lot too.”

Follow me? My hands were suddenly wet and my mind had turned to mush. I wondered if they’d be so eager to keep going if they knew I was walking in circles.

“Sure, right this way,” I said, clearing my throat and blinking back tears. I didn’t have a clue where I was heading. My trusted, faithful car, clean, dependable, and paid off, was nowhere to be seen.

Help Lord, I’m having a senior moment!

Then suddenly it all came back. Clear. Vivid. Certain. I had parked in the first lane by the exit on purpose––so I wouldn’t get in a long line going out. Whew! In the nick of time you answered me. My honey of a car, gleaming in the sun from the fresh car wash, was right where I had left it, six cars to my right, practically in front of me. It never looked better. I wanted to wrap my arms around it, hug it, smooch it!

“Here we are,” I chirped. “I’ll get the books, sign them, and you can be on your way.”

The ladies smiled, scribbled out their checks, handed them to me, and off they went, thanking me as they waved good-bye.

I thanked them too.

But you’re the one who deserves the thanks, Lord, and the hug, and the big smooch! Once more your Holy Spirit came to my rescue.

Up to No Good

By Karen O’Connor

“Will you marry me?” The handsome man with gray hair and bright blue eyes proposed to me on bended knee after a lovely walk along the beach in sunny San Clemente, California.

Before I could say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ he qualified the question. “However, I have one stipulation.”

A stipulation, no less, not a simple request? Hmm! I held onto my affirmative response. After three years, I thought I knew what this guy was up to. We both had committed our lives to Christ and were digging into the Bible together in a study group at church. We supported one another in parenting teen-aged children, and we each paid our bills on time. What could it be?

“I want to be in charge of the laundry,” he said. “There’s no sharing when it comes to washing and ironing. I have my standards. What do you say?”

I hesitated . . . “Let me think about it. YES!” I loved this man and if it would make him happy, I was willing to make the sacrifice.

And so we married. For the next twenty-eight years the laundry room has been off-limits to me. I’ve been instructed that my knowledge of how to wash, dry, fold, and iron clothes is so lacking as to disqualify me from even auditing Household Management 101.

And furthermore, my husband Charles has made it clear that he could not only teach the course but also run the entire university department on such matters. This guy is worth his weight in soapsuds!

There’s nothing he likes better than the rhythmic pounding of a washing machine whirling socks and shirts into submission. Even the sheets snap to attention when he comes round the bend and through the bedroom door.

In our house, it’s “Charles in Charge”––of all things Pima and percale, rayon and nylon, velvet and velour! Even his dresser and his side of the closet are fit for inspection any time of the day or night. A two-finger space separates each shirt on pristine white hangers. Socks are lined up in the drawer from gray to blue to brown to black, and nary an argyle shall dare come between them.

The hamper is never more than half full. And the crease in his pants matches the crease in his brow. So imagine my shock and his chagrin, when I walked into the laundry room one Monday morning. There he stood holding a soggy lump of leather, and a mass of wet bills and dripping credit cards in one hand, and a pair of soaking jeans in the other. Yep! This man’s been up to no good. I caught him laundering our money!

« Previous Page