For reasons I can neither articulate nor defend there are divisions of labor at our house. John handles jumper cables, and flat tires, flooded basements, and tripped circuit breakers. He unclogs toilets, cleans the stove top, and files the taxes. I have never lifted a finger in any of these arenas. 

 

It is not as if these are inherently masculine adventures. But I have eschewed them staunchly for forty years. For my part I did most of the baby care, navigated the labyrinth of options for Ben's education, bought Christmas and birthday gifts, and decorated for the holidays. It is not as if John cannot order packages or wrap them when they arrive. He just doesn't. 

 

We never draw straws, or take turns deciding which of us steps into those situations. John does his and I do mine. I am not suggesting that this is the result of mindful cooperation. It is just how it is. 

 

I have tried to understand my own reticence. And his. It is as if my feet are suddenly nailed to the floor when the battery dies, or the W 2's show up in the mail. I do after all have a graduate degree and a serviceable IQ. But the reluctance to learn how to master those particular skills runs deep. 

 

There is an odd relief that appears like a shadow when such calamities or tasks present themselves. 

 

"This is not my job." Deep exhale. 

 

One of the changes I have noticed in myself over the past decade is that the line between what is my responsibility and what is God's is shifting. When my first few adult kids ran into snags, I operated under the notion that I had to solve it. But I no longer see it as my turf. I certainly care, and find ways to express it. Yet I have witnessed enough miraculous outcomes to know that the scope of life that is not my job is larger than I once believed.