Iron Man

“I’m not crazy about these pleats.”

These are the words my husband uttered as he stood in the living room ironing one of my work skirts – the pink cotton pleated one. The really, really wrinkly one.

You might be wondering how in the world I got my husband to iron my clothes. Did I make enticing promises? Did I whisper sweet nothings in his ear…or at the very least promise a 30-minute backrub?

No. Not the case. Brad offered to iron my clothes when he saw the pile sitting on a chair in our bedroom for three days straight. He knows it’s a chore I detest. He knows I procrastinate for weeks, months even, letting my wrinkled white cotton shirts and rumpled chinos and that stupid pink skirt hang unworn in the back of my closet. He knows ironing makes me tense, that as the iron hisses moist spurts of steam, I’ll be hissing obscenities as I press another deep crease into, rather than out of, my skirt. Maybe Brad can’t stand the cursing. Maybe he can’t bear to witness yet another spectacle of tantrumming ironing. But I think it goes beyond that. Brad simply has a generous heart.

There is a terrible irony here. This is, in fact, the week in which I am supposed to be making a concerted effort to serve others. I am reading Bill Hybels’ Living Beyond Myself as part of my small group study. At the end of our meeting on Sunday afternoon we all suggested ways in which we might reach out to serve those in need this week. We decided our attempts didn’t need to be grandiose – perhaps simply a gesture towards a neighbor, or a family member, or even a stranger. Something small.

Towards the end of our session I suggested I would strive to make an extra effort with my children and husband this week. I vowed to pick up the slack, go the extra mile, serve my family in little ways that might add up to a big difference.

So. There I was, sprawled out on the couch, glass of Shiraz in one hand, Living Beyond Myself in the other – yes I was actually reading that very book – when I realized, with a jolt of horror, the reality of the scene. I’m settled snuggly into the couch, all cozy and relaxed under the fleece, reading about how to serve others, while Brad is quietly watching Sports Center and ironing my clothes. I’m reading about serving; Brad is serving.

Back up. Rewind. I need a do-over! Thankfully I still have a few days before my group meets again. The good news is that I have been thinking a bit more about the small ways in which I can serve those around me.

When Rowan asked for his forty-third cup of water last night before bed, I didn’t snap at him to “go to bed or else!” Instead I gently explained to him for the forty-third time (okay I admit my teeth were clenched, but at least my voice was gentle), why slugging massive amounts of water at bedtime was ill-advised.

When Rowan and I baked banana bread this week, we whipped up an extra loaf for George, our neighbor two doors down who lost his wife earlier this year. I walked up the sidewalk in my bare feet and handed him the tinfoil-wrapped loaf, still warm from the oven. George is a man of very few words, but his expression spoke volumes. “I love banana bread,” he said simply, his eyes crinkling, his weathered, worn face smiling . George patted me awkwardly on the shoulder, and I gave him an awkward pat back on the arm, and then I walked back down the sidewalk to my home.

Small steps. Small service. Big impact.

So put down the book, throw off the fleece, get off the couch and serve. What can you do to help someone in need today? You never know – your act may smooth out a wrinkle in someone’s life. It might make all the difference.