Our Desperate Journey

Mounds of debris rose up on all sides, and I could hardly move my feet for fear of sinking into the muck that lay everywhere.  The stench was overpowering, and I wrinkled my nose, knowing I would soon grow used to it, but not wanting to.  I proceeded carefully, one step at a time, avoiding the largest of the traps, while my husband worked alongside me, removing the danger.  We were a team, communicating heart to heart, knowing that it would take both of us to survive this jungle.

After an hour, he reached out and took my hand.  "We're in this together," he said.  "No matter what."

"No matter what," I echoed, and squeezed his fingers.  I felt emboldened to go on.

For another hour we trudged, dodging refuse, unearthing hidden treasures and also hidden traps.  My husband pioneered the way through the toughest ground and I followed behind, gathering what he dropped, saving what was useful, throwing away the garbage.  And there was a lot of garbage.  I'd rarely seen so much in my life.

"Duck!" he yelled, sending a particularly noxious missile over my head, where it would no longer hurt me.  I marveled at his strength, at his fortitude.  No way could I have faced this wilderness alone.

I tried to be just as brave, but my strength was failing. "I can't go on any longer," I panted.  "Can you finish without me?"

"Sure," he said, hiking his whip a little higher on his shoulder.  "You go on back to camp."

I didn't want to leave him, but I knew I would only slow him down.  I limped away, knowing that he would return victorious, and I would be his woman, sitting by the campfire, hot food waiting for him, and we would tackle a new frontier another day.

And that is the true story of how my husband and I worked together to clean our sons' room on Monday night.