When John was the pastor in a small congregation there was no one but him. If the newsletter got printed, he did it. When the roof leaked in a storm, he mopped it. If the pianist didn't show up, he sat at the keys for a prelude. There were times when I shook my head. This was a far cry from his lofty dreams back in theological school, about helping people have a closer relationship with God. It seemed like the pastoral part was heavily diluted by building maintenance, grunt work, and secretarial tasks. Yet I respect him for going in anyway. 

One time when Ben was in the hospital the nurse was taking his vitals and I asked about her job. 

"It seems that for every minute I am with a patient I need to spend two filling out paperwork." She seemed to be floating somewhere between complaining and considering a career shift. Later when I walked out of Ben's room to stretch my legs, I passed her at the nurse's station with her head bent over a keyboard. She was not smiling.

Twenty years of mothering sounds like a lot of time with a toddler on my hip. There was, but there was also an iceberg of laundry, and finding shoes under the couch, and scraping applesauce off the floor. Those were not the pastimes that hovered above my eyes when I imagined what it would be like to be a mom. Yet they seemed to be part of the fine print. 

Marriage is sometimes portrayed as one long romantic evening. The two of you are always well groomed, and in a jovial mood. Conversation flows easily, punctuated with laughter and kisses. No one seems concerned about the aging contents in the back of the refrigerator, or the rattle in the car engine. Bills are never mentioned, nor are IRAs. Yet those issues and a ream of others have blanketed our thirty years of shared living. 

Friendly banter and hugs are in there too. But they are, I must admit, outnumbered by the mundane. 

Which makes it all the more remarkable when two people still show up anyway.