This morning a memory washed over me, a vital turning point in my life.
It took me back to high school junior year. I was on the phone with my best friend and we were talking about the preparation for our Confirmation. We were to perform 20 hours of volunteer work, which broke down to 4 hours a week for 5 weeks. Her mother had found us volunteer work.
We weren’t sure what the volunteer work was going to be, only of the location. We arrived at a historical house in Santa Monica CA. Once inside, it became clear was our work was going to be—the house was in the middle of restoration. The woman who owned it was converting it to a museum and needed volunteers to paint the walls.
I felt my stomach drop—I had no idea how to paint, other than my finger and toenails. Our stunned and panicked look must have been her clue, because she gave us a crash course on how to apply paint to a wall with a paint roller.
For the next couple of hours we painted. I’m here to tell you it was a real work out—we stretched as high as we could to reach the top of the wall. We squatted to coat the bottom of the wall to the baseboards. The smell of the paint was pungent and some of it splattered on our clothes.
All the while, I tried to make the best of it, finding humor where I could. (Maybe the paint fumes helped me find things funny, I’m not sure.)However, my friend complained in her vague manner—I wasn’t sure if she was upset or not. Her words were of laments, but her tone of voice was soft and gentle.
After our time was up, the woman, a very jovial soul, warmly thanked us and said she would see us same time next Saturday. As we walked out to meet our respecting parent I repeated I would see her next week. She gave a slight shrug and a nod, heading off to her mother’s car. She reminded me of a wet bar of soap—every time you try to get a handle on it, the more it slips away.
The next day, my entire body ached from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I had used muscles I didn’t even know I had!
Then, I got a call from my friend. She announced she wasn’t returning to the painting job the next Saturday. Her mother had found another place for her to volunteer. This work was much less physically taxing—it involved stuffing envelopes. She said I could go to this new job, just to let her know.
I hung up the phone and told my father about our conversation. He said something very interesting —he wasn’t going to tell me what to do, but rather let me make this decision myself.
I considered both jobs. Sitting in an air-conditioned environment stuffing envelopes to fulfill my required hours really sounded tempting. Then, I thought about the woman at the restoration, who was very sweet and accommodating to us. Above all else, I felt obligated to finish the job that I had started. I resolved to return.
Actually, going back to the painting wasn’t all that bad at all. In fact, the woman was delighted that I returned that she bought me lunch! Then, she had found another volunteer that did all of the difficult roller work, leaving me with the easy trimming tasks for the next two Saturdays. My last day, she gave me a glowing letter of recommendation and cut me loose early to enjoy the rest of my afternoon.
I learned a lot about myself from that experience. Not to be underestimated, I also learned how to use a paint roller. This came in handy the first year of my marriage. My husband was painting our apartment wall and teased me that I couldn’t do this since I was such a girly girl. I promptly took the paint roller out of his hands and smoothly applied the paint to the wall.
“You are full of surprises, aren’t you?” he grinned.
Yes, yes I am!
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