Recovering Baptist

I open the truck door; the engine is off. I hear the sound of silence, and it is wonderful. And for once, it’s not because of any sort of deafness. I step on the porch, find the key, and feel like I’m opening the door to my palace. When I am here alone, I feel like a king.

I move a few things to prepare for my guests and then get to work. I spend an hour manhandling a deck that I want to use as a dock in the reeds of the pond. Getting it out of the barn alone gives me a sense of just how tough this job will be. It’s one of the hottest days of the year, but the work is worth it. The decking slides out of the truck into the reeds, but after an hour of sloshing through the mud I realize that some jobs are meant for two men.

The line is in the water. It’s the heat of the day and the fish aren’t biting, but sometimes fishing isn’t about the fish. I forego my usual bait of worms and try using lures. Cast, reel, repeat. Cast, reel, repeat. Old men know how to smoke a pipe and fish at the same time; I need more practice, and this is the right day to work on that combination of skills. The fingerling bass like this choice of lure, but the big ones don’t seem interested.

Having washed off most of the mud, I’m sitting on the rocking chair on the front porch. My friends have arrived for their photoshoot. We thought they would take pictures in the pasture or near the woods, but the proverbial wheels in the photographer’s mind are spinning, and he likes other things that he sees. It’s brutally hot, and everyone is exhausted; it’s hard to take good pictures when the heat zaps your energy, but the pictures look good anyway. I check in with my wife as my friends drive away, and she gives me permission to return to the pond before coming home.

The air is so still that the smoke from my pipe just hangs in the air. Cast, reel, repeat. Sunset is supposed to be the perfect time to catch bass, but it seems that I started a little too late. Cast, reel, repeat. I sit down on the dock my dad and I built. Cast, reel, repeat. I’m beginning to think that it’s too dark for the fish to see the lure; I can’t even see it when it when it comes out of the water. I’m about to give up when a little one strikes. I see a flash of something large going after the little fish. There’s no giving up now.

Cast, reel, repeat. My pipe has gone out and I realize why smoking is important when fishing; damned mosquitoes. Cast, reel, strike! That big one is still around, and now he is on my hook. I fight him for a moment and then utter, “I’ve got him.” It’s the wrong thing to say. He gets caught up in some strings hanging down from the dock and gets away. Fisher’s fallacy is worse than gambler’s fallacy.

The scene is beautiful. Having spent all day around a camera, I try to figure out how to capture the scene. It’s impossible. I long for the ability to describe what I see, but I lack the words. So I keep fishing. There’s no way the fish can see the lure, but fishing isn’t about catching fish. I’m mourning the loss of my favorite broadcaster and the impending death of my friend’s father and enjoying the stillness. And the crickets. And the occasional bullfrog.

I climb in the truck and leave my kingdom. It’s time to return to suburbia.

My family thinks it is strange that people want to use our farm for pictures. To them it’s a dusty old, working farm. But I know that it’s much more than that. It is a Good place, and people resonate with Goodness, even when it’s just a glimpse through a picture. I am blessed that I get to experience it whenever I want to.

Let’s be honest; being unemployed sucks. I have tons of time on my hands, but that doesn’t mean that I’m free. For starters, I don’t really have a lot of spare cash lying around for extracurriculars. But I also feel bound to stay close to home so I can make calls or look for new opportunities online. I know there’s nothing for me online, but it gives the appearance of action, and that has some value.

Days like today, though, are very tough. I’ve received some feedback on my resume that it needs to be strengthened. So my wife and I have spent all day working on it. The problem with working on a resume is that every critique hits you twice. First, your document is put under a microscope, which means that your writing and organizational abilities are in question. Then, as a natural result, your career is being reviewed, as well. Even when good things are brought to light it reminds me of all of the negative things which happened. I feel as if the last three years were a professional waste, and days like today serve as a reminder. Add to that the fact that my wife cannot work with background noise and I cannot stand a silent room, plus the constant ringing in my ears, and I’m about to go bonkers.

Things were going great in the kitchen. All the faceframes are up; the drawers are custom built and all but two are installed; the undercounter lights are installed. Our four year-old was off at a friend’s playing today, so it seemed like a perfect day to rip some maple and start creating our twenty-plus cabinet doors. I was working on the router when I looked over and saw my wife jumping around.

Jumping is not something you want to see when someone has been running a tablesaw. I saw her let go of her thumb long enough to remove a board from the saw so it wouldn’t take off; she also managed to turn the saw off. Then came the questions. What happened? How bad was it? Was this a hospital type of cut, or was it just a little nick?

Five minutes after thumb met blade we were on the road, two year old in hand. We threw him out the door as we drove by a friends’ house and headed to Northside Hospital where we figured out a couple of strange coincidences. First, this was the last day that our insurance was officially covered by my company before COBRA kicked in. There’s something a bit strange about going into a place like that and telling them that you’re unemployed. Second, our friends first baby was born 13 hours before my wife’s accident, and they were on the other side of the same hospital. How often does a new dad get the call, “hey, we just happened to be at the hospital today, too. Mind if we drop by and meet your new daughter? Oh yeah, never mind my wife’s bloody hand or that we’re covered in sawdust..” Maybe it’s best that the need for drugs was stronger than the desire to meet a new, little person.

My favorite line of the day came from yours truly. The nurse practitioner asked what we were doing, and we explained that hiring someone to remodel your kitchen costs and arm and a leg. To which I added that doing it ourselves only cost a thumb.

I hate births. The whole process of babies being born makes me very nervous. I come by it naturally. My parents lost their first child due to a bad forceps delivery. If my first child had been born one hundred and five years ago as to five years ago, I would have lost both a child and a wife in the same day. Like I said, everything about the whole process puts me on edge.

Some good friends of ours were convinced they wouldn’t be able to have kids. Then a “Christian” adoption agency turned them down as adoptive parents (which, as an adopted child still makes me see red). But somehow, after years and years of trying, they conceived nine months ago. They decided to give birth at home with the assistance of a midwife and a doula. Great idea; my mom was delivered in her parents’ bedroom with the assistance of my great-grandfather who delivered most of the kids in that part of the state. But, still, it made me even more nervous. So when I read on their blog on Sunday morning that she had been in labor for nearly a day without any action, I was really scared. I spent most of the service at church figuring out how to follow along on their blog just so I would know when they finally went to the hospital.

The end of the story is that I just talked to the proud papa. The baby is fine, but mama’s got to heal up a bit. I fully understood it when he said that up until he saw the baby’s head that yesterday was the worst day of his life. Heck, there are parts of our birth story that are not fit to print or even mention in any circumstance. For some it’s a wonderful process full of endorphins, but for my friend and me it was a hellish experience which reinforced the fragility of life. But I don’t know if a more wanted baby has ever been born then the one who made her appearance yesterday. And for that it’s all worth it.

I don’t know why I’m in so much pain this morning. My shoulders are tight; my left leg is cramping up. All we did yesterday was hang out at the farm with my family and fish. I mean, how much pain can a dozen bream and a few fingerling bass cause?

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My hair is full of gunk. I’m cold. My beard is white and my face is more pasty than usual. Everything tastes and smells like drilled teeth. And I want windshield wipers for my goggles. Yep, I’m cutting tile tonight.

There’s one good thing about a kitchen compared to, say, a shower. A finished kitchen will have trim; a shower doesn’t. And that’s a good thing, because I can’t cut a long, straight line tonight. I’m kind of mad, because I’m usually very proud of my cuts. Oh well, at least the sub-par cuts (yeah, I’m off by 1/8″ so shoot me) are going to be hidden. Hopefully I’ve got all my bad cuts behind me before I help our pastor with his backsplash; or may he’ll hire someone for more than a couple of pints of beer.

But hey, at least we’ve got good progress, and everything’s looking great. The new kitchen light rocks, too. This place is going to be beautiful, even if I’m not at the moment.

Sin. It’s not a word most people use on a regular basis. For much of the world it’s generally relegated to Sunday mornings, but then there are others for whom it is a constant focus. It’s not a fun topic because no one wants to be called a sinner.

By most Christian standards, a sin is a wrong committed against God. A person can do wrong to another person or even to himself, but ultimately that’s a sin against God. And, according to the Bible, there is a long list of clearly defined sins, such as murder. The real challenge to Christians, and part of why there are so many different kinds of churches, is to interpret the Bible to figure out what other actions (or non-actions) might be sins, as well. For example, some Christians think the simple act of drinking alcohol is a sin, others don’t. Some Christians think sex exists only for procreation and any sexual act which isn’t intended for that purpose is sinful; others think Christians have varying amounts of liberty there. And then there’s my dad, who I love.

As a little background, while he won’t claim to be a biblical scholar, my dad has served as a deacon at several Baptist churches. He’s taught Sunday School. He’s learned from some excellent Bible scholars. He knows the scriptures.

This is the man who, on Saturday while laying tile, said, “I’ll have another Diet Coke, even though it’s sinful.” Huh? The real shock is that he was serious. Somehow he’s come to the conclusion that drinking too many Diet Cokes is a sin against his body and therefore against God.

Look, I’m not a big Diet Coke fan. I think Nutrasweet is an awful product, and I’m trying to only consume ingredients that I can visualize or at least pronounce (water, malt, yeast, and hops, for example). But there’s a huge gap between something being marginally bad for you when consumed in massive quantities and being sinful.

Is it any wonder that this man doesn’t see his church (or worse yet, the one I grew up in) as legalistic?

There was this teacher guy once. He had some pretty wise things to say. One of them was that what you eat really isn’t that important in the eyes of God. You know, my Baptist father would do well to listen to him and relax a little bit. That guy’s name was Jesus; he might be worth listening to.

Thirty three tiles; seventy four and a quarter square feet. That’s how much tile my dad and I managed to lay today. We’ve now laid a total of 59 tiles and covered a total of just over 132 sq ft (for you keeping score at home, my calculations earlier this week were wrong). The wild thing is that for most of this week the tile work didn’t start until just after 9:00; I’m sitting on the couch and feeling like I ought to be laying tile despite having spent all day finishing the uncut tiles in the kitchen and breakfast area.

All in all it’s gone pretty well. I’m pretty proud with how the tile is looking so far. I think there are maybe three tiles that I wish I could redo, but I’m too picky about my work.

So we’ve still got the entryway and all of the cutting (which I actually like), but at least we’re more than half-way through with the floor.

As if reporting on the status of my floors isn’t boring enough, I’m going to write a little bit about tips on tiling. This is for me to refer back to and not really for my three or four readers, but you’re welcome to keep reading if you’d like. Laying tile consists of spreading mortar, placing the tile on the mortar, and then ensuring the tile is properly oriented and level. Spreading the mortar requires the right trowels. Orienting the tiles is best done by first snapping a chalk line so your initial tiles are straight and then using spacers to keep thing square and properly spaced. Leveling the tiles is the difficult part, and that’s where the right tools come in handy. When the mortar is spread too thick the best tool is body weight. You can simply push down on the tile and watch the mortar ooze out, but when you push down on one corner the opposite one will rise up, so proper balance is important. But when you need to raise a corner there are only two tools to do the trick. You can use a pry bar, but there are times you can’t get the bar in there, and that’s when the secret tiling weapon is used - a paint can key. You know, the one they give you for free at Lowe’s when you buy a can of paint. It takes a lot of strength, but you can use the lip of the key to grab the edge of the tile and lift it straight up without pushing the other corner down. If you ever lay tile, especially on an unlevel floor, you will thank me for this tip.

The other banal detail is how I’m spreading the motar. Since we’re using 18″ x 18″ tiles, we’re taking extra steps. To spread the thin set, fist spread a very thin layer over the backerboard. Then back butter the tile by spreading a thin layer on the back of the tile so all of the little squares are filled. Then trowel the thinset in the place where the tile will be placed. If leveling is an issue, then it is better to spread the thinset too thick so you can push the tile down than trying to place additional mortar under the tile once you put it into place.

So, for the one reader who managed to get through all of this, thank you for reading. Maybe it will help you some time in the future. If it does, please let me know. Heck , if you’re a personal friend of mine and you read this whole post, let me know and I’ll buy you a beer. You’re obviously in need of something interesting in your day!

The good news is that we laid about 20 square feet of tile last night. It took a while to get our technique back; heck, it took us a while to remember which end faces up. But after a few tiles we were able to pick up the pace.

The bad news is that 20 sq ft represents about 10% of our 200 plus sq ft of tile to lay. And we didn’t even make any cuts! By my math we’ve got another 45 hours of tile laying to go.

Anyone who hasn’t done this sort of work probably doesn’t realize just how physical it is. The next time you hire someone to remodel your house, just remember that the pain of writing the check probably pales in comparison to the pain you would have in every part of your body if you were the one carrying 75 lb buckets of mortar up a flight of stairs so you could then bend over for what feels like an hour to get a single tile to sit in the stuff just right.

OK, so only my project manager friends who happen to enjoy music will really get the headline joke. The point is that our kitchen project keeps growing. It all started with some floor tile and laminate countertops. Then it grew bit by bit. Now it looks like the plan to have the cabinets painted may change; instead, we’re thinking about stripping the paint off the cabinets and staining them ourselves.

So the bad news is that we’ve got more work to do. The good news is that this is going to be one hell of a kitchen when all is said and done.

The better news is that I’ve got some friends lined up to help out tonight. My dream of having a tiled kitchen by Sunday morning may become a reality.