“Honey, the faucet in the upstairs bathroom is leaking,” I announced. “Can we call someone to fix it?”
My husband Bob puffed out his chest. “No, don’t bother. I’ll get my tools.”
My heart pounded instinctively as I began to chew my nails, a habit that rears its ugly head when I hear, “I’ll get my tools.” Although the Lord had blessed me with a wonderful husband, he came with a defective handyman gene.
After Bob made two trips to the hardware store, I peeked in the bathroom. It appeared he had bought the entire hardware store! There were shiny parts, screws, cylinders, and springs covering the countertop and floor. Oh no! Was that my faucet laying in fifty-eight pieces?
I slipped back downstairs as Bob raced past me shouting, “Don’t use the water! I’ve got to shut it off!” Trudging back up the stairs, I saw the drip had erupted into a gush, and soon we would be able to use our bathtub as a boat.
With five kids and one housecat, we’ve grown quite accustomed to running water – in the bathrooms, kitchen, and even for the washer. I envisioned our lives in a few days – kids covered in dirt from head to toe, looking far too tan. Our mouths parched and tongues hanging out from lack of water.
My husband slumped in a chair. “Please hand me the phone. I’m going to call that handyman.”
I swiped my forehead. Whew! We’d have water!
A few days later, one of my boys came running in. “Dad, the garage door is broken. When you push the button, it won’t go down.
My eyes darted to the phone. “How about I call the handyman?”
Bob stood up taller. “No, don’t bother. I’ll get my tools.”
I resisted the urge to fling myself in front of the door, shouting, “No. Please, no.” Slumping my shoulders, I mumbled, “It’s a garage door, how much worse can it get?” But the nail-biting started, nonetheless.
After several hours, I opened the door and gasped. The garage door hung off the track, the chain looked like a tangled slinky, and the light blinked on and off faster than any caution light in town.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, Bob mumbled, “Please hand me the phone. I gotta call that handyman.”
After the handyman fixed the garage door, he looked Bob in the eye as he wiped his hands on a towel. “Bob, I’m taking your tools away. Never again, buddy. Okay?”
My husband chuckled. “What can I say? I wasn’t born with a wrench in my hands.”
Today, I live with five children, one housecat, one less than handy husband, a working bathroom, a garage door, and the phone number of the handyman at the top of my emergency list.