Last weekend I completed a task that was years in the making. Something I dreaded doing, something that I may very well have lost some sleep over.

I’m talking about hanging up Christmas lights.

“Oh, come now!” you scoff. “What could be so dreadful about stringing up a few lights?”

For the most part, nothing. I enjoy it. It makes the house look nice, and lends to the festive atmosphere of the neighborhood during the holiday season. Not all houses are lit up, so we feel that in some way we owe it to our street to make up the difference.

But it has to be done right. I don’t like skimping, and I don’t like odd ends. You know what I’m talking about: those houses where they’ve hung up a string or two along the gutters, but don’t quite have enough to make it the whole distance, leaving a big empty spot. Lame. Or maybe they have too much, and either make an “X” on the window they’ve encircled, or just let the ends trail into the bushes nearby. Very lame. You can find all sorts of examples of these kinds of efforts at Ugly Christmas Lights.

Thus, I make sure I have enough lights to cover the area I’m targeting, so there are no gaps or sudden stops. And in the cases where I have excess lighting, I find a way to tastefully hide it.

The problem has always been an inaccessible spot on the second story, just above the garage. I give you exhibit A:

For years, I’ve tried reaching that spot. I have an extension ladder that is plenty long. I can reach the highest gutters on all sides of the house, except for that spot and its twin on the other side of the garage. Standing on the little peak of garage roof allows me to reach the center of that stretch, but not more than six or eight feet of it. Thus, any light strings I hang off the eaves either end there, or are hung with a great swooping drop right at those two angled sections.

One year, I managed to put lights there by climbing on the top of the second story roof and perching precariously on the very edge, leaning over and clipping lights to the shingles. Despite my bravado, I was a nervous wreck doing it. I’d make the joking comment “Hey, I can see our house from here!” several times out loud to whomever might be down on the lawn with the phone ready to dial 911, but inside I was simply repeating the Lord’s Prayer over and over, and selecting a choice landing spot.

That was a few years ago. I’m older now, and the moss on the roof has made it a lot less stable a surface for walking around. I am definitely NEVER going to go up there again.

But we have the neatest icicle lights now, and they HAD to be strung up there. For a few years we’ve had them strung all along the lower level. That I can get to with the 8 foot ladder. No sweat.

What I needed for the upper section was cup hooks all along the fascia. If I could get cup hooks on there, just once, from then on I could use a pole to hang the icicle light strings every year after.

The trouble is, how to reach. The ladders won’t help, because of the weird roof line. There’s really no safe way to get at it from above. What I’d need is some sort of scaffold on the lower roof to give me the extra height I need. Something that would fit on the roof without requiring nails or screws, but would be rock solid and stable.

In my mind, I began building. It would have to provide a long, flat walking surface and somehow accommodate the angle of the roof, and would need to grip the composite shingles.

After a few virtual failures, my brain finally settled on something simple: a simple support that would rest on the angle of the roof using a carpeted surface to grip the shingles, and a long plank that would stretch from the support over to the extension ladder, about 12 feet away.

Sure. Simplicity itself. It would work just like this:

The plank was easy. I used three fourteen foot 2×4 studs tied together with 12″ blocks to create a 12″ plank. This would fit within the rungs of the ladder. The support took some measurements to match the pitch of the roof. Luckily I had all the lumber I needed in my pile. I grabbed a discarded doormat for a gripping surface and tacked that down on the angled plate.

With all the pieces ready, I hauled the support up to the roof. This is when my wife came out to see what I was doing (she made me promise to NOT get on the roof unless she was out there to observe, phone in hand).

“Look, honey! See? This is the support.” I set it on the roof and nestled it in place, pressing down hard. She gave it a doubtful look. “The rug grips the roof. It’s rock solid!” I gave it a little kick, and it skittered down the roof in a manner that was quite un-rock-solid-like.

“Yeah,” my wife said.

“Shoot. I don’t know what to do,” I said, and climbed down the ladder, defeated.

But I didn’t have any other options. I had to hang those lights, and I had to reach that spot.

An hour or so later, I re-gathered my courage and set out to try it again.

“Can I try it one more time?” I asked my wife. I’ve learned, over the years, not to push my luck beyond what she’s willing to absorb.

“Yes.”

Hurray! Carefully I set the support on the dry section of the roof (no moss, no slipping) and pulled up the plank. “Okay, here we go,” I said. I placed the plank on the support and set the other end through the ladder.With the plank in place, I tentatively put one foot on the plan and put weight on it.

The support and plank held. It didn’t move a bit.

Success!

As quickly as I could I edged out toward the no-longer-inaccessible areas and drilled in a pilot hole, then screwed in a cup hook. I dropped the hook, which clattered down the roof an onto the walkway. “Look out below!” I called, too late.

Another cup hook. I dropped it too. “Watch out!” I called. My wife had wisely moved before I called.

After dropping five or six, I managed to screw one in, and I moved on down the plank.

Dutifully, my loving wife stood below and held the ladder stable while the plank bounced up and down.

Then, while drilling a pilot hole, the drill slipped from my hands.

“LOOK OUT!” I yelled, and she hurriedly ducked under the eaves behind the ladder as the drill tumbled once, struck a rung and embedded itself in the lawn. “Sorry!” I said.

She retrieved the drill and the fallen cup hooks, and then my dear sweet wife, the one who is terrified of heights, climbed eight feet up the ladder to hand them to me. She deserves a medal, I think.

We continued on, one pilot hole and cup hook at a time.

At one point, Uncle T (my step daughter’s dad) dropped by with his wife and daughter for a Christmas picture photo op. He helped hold the ladder while I dropped cup hooks on his head, giving my poor wife a much-needed break.

“What are you doing up there?” Auntie C called out.

“Trying to reach the edge of the roof here to hang up lights,” I said.

“Wow, you’re really brave,” she said.

“No, just really stupid,” I said.

Eventually it came time to move the ladder. At this point my daughter L came out to help.

“What can I do?” she called to me.

“Well, I’ll need to move the ladder,” I said.

“I can do that!” she said.

“You couldn’t. It’s way too heavy.”

“No it’s not.” And with that, she grabbed the ladder. I was amused to see her determination and foolhardiness in hoisting a 24 foot extension ladder that probably weighs more than she does, and moving it around the house (I wonder where she gets that foolhardy streak?).

My amusement turned to concern and a bit of anxiety when I realized that the ladder was my only way down, and if she couldn’t put it back up, I’d be stuck.

Concern gave way to helpless panic when I saw the ladder topple backwards as L struggled to keep it upright. My wife stepped in and steadied it, and together they wrestled it over to the other edge of the roof, where I needed it.

After replacing the plank, I was able to finish the pilot holes and cup hooks on that side, until the whole front part of the house was complete.

We had done it.

A little later I hauled out the icicles and easily hung them up on their hooks using a pole without having to stand on a scaffold of any kind.

It was a risky and perhaps even foolish plan I had concocted. With every scenario I’d envisioned as I played out my scheme in my mind, I’d end up on the ground with multiple fractures, and the plank usually ended up jutting out of the van’s windshield.

But it worked. I think God needs me here a little longer for some reason. But I’m sure He’s getting a little annoyed with how I keep pushing my luck.

Merry Christmas to all! I’m going to go have eggnog now.

I just found out that my wife’s surgery went through without a hitch.

She’ll be in the hospital for a few days still.

The real healing will be in the days, weeks and months that follow as she and I commit to the lifestyle changes we’ve only toyed with until now.

I refuse to lose her, or even risk her health any further.

Tomorrow my wife has her surgery.

I don’t think either one of us will sleep a wink tonight.

One thing that is really encouraging is to know how many people are praying for us, who care, who are sending their thoughts and wishes for a successful procedure and a speedy recovery.

We now have a CaringBridge web page where you all can check on her progress. I’ll be providing updates as I learn more. I know she’ll love to read your comments, thoughts, prayers and wishes for her, once she’s up and able to function.

She should be back home by the weekend… where the long road to recovery will truly begin.

Stay tuned…

When I was 20 or so, I had a blurry, abstract vision of what marriage was like: husband relaxing in leather chair reading paper in one room, children playing noisily in another room, wife in yet another room cheerfully going about her business. Everyone content, everyone occupied. And everyone keeping safe distances; each giving nothing and requiring nothing.

“Marriage is a lot of work,” people would say. And I’d nod and consider those words, but never appreciate them. “Marriage can be really hard,” they’d say. How hard could it be, if two people love each other enough? What more is there?

A lot more.

Even at this late point in my life, I am still learning what “a lot of work” means. And even if the circumstances are extremely troublesome, the work isn’t unpleasant when it is for the benefit of someone you love dearly.

In December of 2008, just after Christmas, my wife had a heart attack. She was attended to by the best team in the Pacific Northwest, and after placement of a stent in the blocked heart vessel, she was pretty much good as new.

Until just recently, when we discovered that the stent has closed over with scar tissue, bringing her pretty much right back to where she was. Ever the tough cookie, her body responded by growing brand new blood vessels in an attempt to bypass the blockage. Amazing, how God designed us that way.

She’s scheduled for bypass surgery on Tuesday.

I don’t mind saying that I’m pretty scared. And so is she. Even though we know that the hospital is widely known for superior cardiac care. Even though we know that the surgeon is one of the best in the business, and he assured us that this operation is “a chip shot.”

Even so: this is very, very scary.

But I must be strong and confident and protect my wife, and provide the bedrock foundation that she needs right now, and before her surgery, and when she wakes up afterwards.

And while she’s away recuperating at the hospital over the following week, I’ll need to be firm and efficient at home directing kids to their tasks and ensuring that she has a calm, clean and pleasant home to return to. And I’ll need to be sure the bills are paid, the meals are cooked, the lawns are mowed, the laundry is washed and the dishes are done. And I must tend to the deadlines I have at work. And I must bring the kids to the hospital to visit their mom, to cheer and encourage her to do her part in getting well and coming home.

This is my work. It is part of the vows that I took. It is hard work. It takes a lot to keep it together and do it all correctly.

But for her, I would do it all a thousand times over for the remainder of our life together, and I’ll smile just knowing I can keep her.

“Honey? The refrigerator is leaking.”

“What? Where?”

“From the water dispenser.”

“Oh.”

(pause)

“It’s really bad.”

“How bad?”

“Like, a big puddle on the floor.”

“Oh.”

(pause)

“It’s going to ruin the floor.”

“That’s true.”

“Well, aren’t you going to do something about it?”

“Yeah. I’ll take care of it.”

“There, I fixed it.”

(pause)

(glare from wife)

(picks up phone) “Hello, Sears home repair? Can you come out Saturday?”

edited to add: Sears came out promptly Saturday morning, and got it fixed in less than half an hour. Wow. I am impressed.

You know you’ve got a good marriage when you’re driving in the rain, eyes glued to the road, while your wife sits in the passenger seat writing a check, and out of the corner of your eye you see her stop writing for a moment, look up, then look in your direction, and without taking your eyes off the road, you say “twenty nine” and she goes back to writing, and you smile a little, knowing full well that not only did she not need to say a word to you for you to understand that she had a question, but you knew what the question was, and you’re thankful that she knew you’d know the answer.

Yeah. That’s good stuff.

A simple trip to the grocery store on a sunny day.

Michael’s buckling himself into his car seat, one of his new favorite activities and proof to all that he is indeed a big boy.

I’ve returned the shopping cart to the corral and am walking back to the car.

My wife is waiting patiently by the van’s passenger door, smiling pleasantly. She knows it’s my job to open her door, and she knows how much it means to me.

It’s a small thing, really; but it is one of the great joys of life, one of the simple delights of being married to someone who also appreciates the concept of chivalry. Not only for what it brings me, and not only for what it brings her, but for what it brings us.

Wife: “Honey? The vacuum cleaner won’t turn on. I’ve tried three different plug-ins and it won’t work!”

Husband: “Okay, sweetheart. Let me take a look at it.”

Husband disassembles and performs tests on aforementioned vacuum cleaner, strokes non-existent beard thoughtfully while making various murmurs of concentration.

Husband: “Ah ha! Here’s the problem. The cord retractor has an intermittent wiper connection. I can fix that.”

Wife: “The retractor?”

Husband, while skillfully removing the retractor unit: “Yes. This thing. See? It has this huge steel coil spring that pulls the cord back inside.”

Wife: “What spring?”

Husband: “This -”

Husband: “-was the spring.”

Wife, dialing phone: “Hello, Stark’s Vacuums? Uh, my husband tried to…”

Maybe I should stick with plumbing.

Like any good husband, I try to make sure to let my wife know that I love her in different ways.

But sometimes the question comes to mind on the spur of the moment and she needs to ask. And on those occasions I like to have a romantic answer ready for her. She’s a dialog ninja, though, and sometimes my best efforts fall flat.

Recently we were driving to the store, and she asked:

“Do you love me?”

“Absolutely I do. Only more today than yesterday,” I said, thinking I’d given her a good one.

After a microscopic pause came the response: “How come you didn’t love me that much yesterday?”

I think she just loves to see me slap my forehead.

Mornings are always fun. Usually my wife goes to work early and I get up to help her, just to make it a little less of a rush. Today she had to be out the door at 7:00 AM sharp to catch a ride with a co-worker.

So I made her breakfast and coffee and kept an eye on Michael downstairs while she finished getting ready.

I even took the time to straighten the entryway a smidge and got a few of my wife’s most oft-chosen shoes lined up, thinking she’d probably want one of the pairs there.

It’s important to understand that Michael’s mommy loves her shoes. I am not going to compare her to Imelda Marcos, but she has a lot of them. Being a male, I cannot understand the need for more than three pairs: grungy shoes, every day shoes, and Sunday shoes; so it’s hard for me to grasp the need to own so many different shoes, nor do I see how anyone can determine which shoes are the right ones for the given occasion/circumstance/venue/mood.

In addition, these shoes are prone to wandering off on their own and hiding. You can find them in the darndest places. Fortunately, I’ve gotten pretty good and shoe search and rescue, so my wife often calls upon me to locate a requested pair of shoes, which when you think about it is quite a feat. Let me remind you again that I am a man. Men are not widely respected for their ability to distinguish between colors or styles of apparel.

Which brings me back to my tale.

At 6:55 she called, frantic, from the top of the stairs:

“Tom! I need you to find my shoes!”

I sprang into action.

“Which shoes?” I called as I dashed over to the stairs.

“The dark cloggy ones that I haven’t seen for weeks and weeks!”

That narrows it down, I thought. “Dark cloggy ones?”

“Yes! They’re reddish brown and I have no idea where they are!”

“And you expect me to find them in five minutes?”

Intuitively, I first checked the entryway closet. This is where most shoes end up when they’ve gone missing for any length of time.

I dug furiously through a condensed layers of apparel strata like a possessed armadillo, tossing everything into the entryway: boots, umbrellas, a leg brace, an errant coat, and at least thirty pairs of shoes, most of them belonging to any of three teenage girls who, when asked to clean up, just toss their belongings inside this closet and quickly shut the door.

With one minute to spare, from the back of the closet I plucked out one pair of reddish-brown cloggy type shoes that haven’t seen the light of day for at least three weeks.

“There you are.”

“Thank you!”

“I think I’ve earned something for that,” I say.

“Congratulations.” she says. “You passed that challenge.”

Once again, I have preserved my spot on the island.