Arriving back home from the laundromat (Strike One – Broken Washer), I was greeted by a dead bird on the deck (Strike Two – Gotta Love a Visit from the Grim Reaper).

Disposing of our dearly departed feathered friend, I was informed of an epic toilet backup requiring immediate attention (Strike Three – You’re Out).

Trying to anticipate the next disaster, I began weeping and tore my sackcloth.  It’s always good to be in the proper state of mind, because the fire and brimstone will surely come a knockin’.

Starting some dinnertime conversation, I asked the boys, “How was school today?”

Without missing a beat, our Fifth Grader Sam responded, “Today in Science Class, we learned about Plantar Warts.”

That’s nice.  In Food Sciences, did they cover appropriate dinner conversation topics?  Please, pass the Compound W.

Bambootiful

While setting traps for the mice colony that must be living close to our shed, I stopped to consider the benefits of just getting a barn cat, instead.  Yep, a barn cat would take care of those mice.

Then I started thinking that if it got hungry enough, would the barn cat take care of me, too?

Irrational barn cat fears, I would say that’s hang up enough for one night.

As a good Lutheran, I know that Heaven cannot be earned, access is granted only by the grace of God.  Fine, all well and good, but after proofing the math homework of my 10-year-old son, I feel I’ve earned it.

Yep, it’s like, “Welcome to Heaven, Mr. Paulsen.  Your room is this way and trust me, you’ve earned it.”

Yesterday afternoon, I took our two youngest boys to their weekly track meet.  8-year-old Ben was scheduled to run the 1/2 mile and his older brother, 10-year-old Sam was scheduled to run the mile.

Mostly, track meets involve waiting.  Lots of waiting.  Then a short burst of activity.  Then more waiting.

In my case, I watched young Ben run his 1/2 mile and then began the wait for older brother Sam’s mile race to begin.

As the gun went off (sounds dramatic, huh), Ben and I watched Sam run off into the distance.  We jogged over to the midway point and prepared to tell Sam his time.  Shouting out his progress, I readied to jog to the finish line.  As I departed, young Ben informed me that he would run beside his older brother for the final leg of the race.

Arriving at the finish line I looked up and there in the distance was Sam preparing to sprint toward the end.  Sure enough, keeping stride with Sam was his younger brother, Ben.  He was keeping up.  Cheering his brother on.  Using what he had left in the tank to help encourage his older sibling.

Sometimes we run for ourselves and there’s a time and a place for that, but life sure does look sweet and the effort seems to be a lot more carefree, when that final burst of energy is going to help someone else reach their goal.

Runners.  Brothers.  Both already winners.

“Who is that wannabe handsome dude mowing in the front yard without a shirt?”

“Wait, that’s Dave, and he’s only supposed to mow without a shirt in the backyard.”

“What is he doing running over every leaf in sight with the lawnmower?”

“Desperation.  Purely desperate attempt to get out of ever raking.  Sad, just like him prancing around without a shirt.”

“Huh?  Why is he now mowing in the street?”

“More leaf ‘Shock and Awe.’  He’s trying to mulch up even the leaves in the street without thinking through the fact that the newly mulched leaves will have no place to go.”

“Another pass with the mower in the street, are you kidding me?”

“You see, he’s trying to now blow the leaves onto the grass using the exhaust from the lawn mower, even though it’s into the wind and mostly the mulched organics just blow back onto his bare chest.”

“Does the man have no shame?”

“Nope, even when it appears to random passing motorists that he’s just a bare chested man covered in leaf dust mowing the middle of the road.”

“Can we deny any knowledge of this fellow?”

“I’ve already filed the paperwork.”

Waiting for a service call on our broken washing machine, I have become very accustomed to our neighborhood laundromat.  I know which row of machines that I favor (the ones where the washers are located closest to the dryers), how much money to bring (more than you would imagine), and what time to start my twice-per-week visit (as early in the morning as possible).

Planning out my Wednesday morning, I had a winning strategy.  Wake up early, drive to the laundromat, start the wash, drive home, fix some breakfast for the family, return to the laundromat, start the drying cycle, return home, send the kids off to school, return to the laundromat, put the dried clothing in the trunk of my car, and drive to work.  “Really, David?  Is that really your plan?  Is that the best you could come up with?”  Yep, it does not look very sane, but it works, trust me.

At least, I thought it worked.  I was pretty sure of it.  The only flaw?  Others.  My fellow man.  Rules of conduct in a civilized society.  You see, I put the clothes into the drier, returned home, got the kids off to school, returned to the laundromat to collect my clothing and…  wait…  my laundry baskets…  gone!  My precious (probably valued at less than $2 each and having lived very long lives, I suspect, for unassuming laundry baskets) baskets were gone!  I quickly wandered around the entire building (not that large) engaged in my desperate search.  Nothing.  They were gone!  As I warily glanced at the fellow sitting lonely in the corner (he could not have taken them, he was still there), I began to suspect the younger fellow that was there earlier, the one who was playing a game that was somewhat too loud on his phone.  How could random game boy have done this to me?  I was hurt.  Hurt by a fellow laundromat customer.  Hurt by someone who should have known the rules of laundromat etiquette better.  I was hurt by a laundromat compatriot.

Gathering my family’s load of whites into my arms, I stomped out of the facility.  Mad at life.  Mad at myself for trusting others.  Mad at society in general.  Mad at (but somewhat forgiving of) the random fellow still sitting lonely in the corner.

Driving to work.  Laundry safely sitting in my trunk.  Clarity beginning to rush back with each passing mile, I got to thinking, “Maybe I had carried the baskets back home, when I placed the laundry into the driers.”  Dear God, that’s what had happened!  Society had not let me down, the young man on his phone was not crooked, instead I was to blame!  I had become the outlier.  The nasty seed of society.  The undeserving.  The scorned.  I had become a bitter, angry man, who was carrying unfolded towels around in search of a stack of cheap plastic laundry baskets that I had apparently hidden from myself.

I felt better about society.  I felt worse about myself.  I needed something.  Something to feel better.  I needed my washing machine fixed.  “Where have you gone, Maytag Repairman?  Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you.  Wu wu wu.”

Friday afternoon, taking a five minute break, the conversation at work took its usual course (read “none at all”).

Start – “That DQ ice cream pizza sure is tasty.”

Twist – “We used to have that for special events at school.”

Redirect – “I remember popcorn parties at school.”

Twist – “When I was young, we didn’t have microwaves for our popcorn.”

Redirect – “We had to roam the streets and gather spare unpopped kernels that had fallen to the ground.”

Twist – “We were lucky when the handfuls of kernels did not include rocks.”

Redirect – “Although, sand rocks aren’t too bad.”

Twist – “Sorry, I meant to say ‘sand stone.'”

Bridge to Unlimited Future Conversations – “Hey, ‘Sand Rock’ would make for a great band name.  If only any of us could sing or play an instrument, then we could play all sand or beach music like ‘Sandman’ or the ‘Beach Boys’ or ‘Been through the Desert on a Horse with No Name.'”

Yes, some people are speed boats (direct), while I find delight in the sailboat moments of life.  Let the wind blow me here or there, no care for where we land.

Sorry about this glimpse into the Mind of Dave, I hope you enjoyed your stay and I hope the sailboat leads you safely to shore.

Knowing that I love my sweets, my friend Josh stopped by my cubical at work to offer me a candy cane.  This candy cane however had some baggage associated with it.  It was the mini-variety.  It was broken.  It had been carried around in Josh’s briefcase for the last ten months.  Broken.  Forgotten.  Unwanted.

Placing it on my desk, I smiled with delight and thanked Josh with the response, “It’s perfect!”  I was perfect.  Perfectly broken into bite size chunks.  Perfectly mini to avoid any calorie concerns.  Perfectly sealed in plastic.

You see, landing in any other place the candy cane may have been mocked.  Scorned.  Discarded.  Landing however in the right place, it was welcomed.  Wanted.  Appreciated.  Perfect.

We are all a little like that.  Damaged goods.  Whether it be underappreciated, forgotten, or banged up by life.  We all feel less than perfect.

Just remember, when you feel broken by life.  Cracked beyond repair and discarded.  Your time will come.  Just hang in there.  Someday you are going to land in just the right place and receive the smiles you deserve.  You may not be minty, but you are perfect, too.