Something's Bugging Me

Dumpster Dating

Theology in the Trenches

By Kathleen Kjolhaug

Women know this term, at least the ones living in our part of the country.  It happens quickly.  One minute you’re just standing there and the next, you look up, out the window, or over your shoulder catching sight of hubby taking out the weekly trash.  You immediately drop what you’re doing to ride along!  His appointment at the dumpster is usually strategically planned, for he knows the exact hour the bins will be empty.  Not a soul around is a good thing as he tugs, tosses, and patches together the rag-tag bags he is hoisting.  I watch admiringly from afar as he makes no request for my help.  Never does he have any expectation that I should get out to help lug the load.  He simply does the job as an act of service.

However, it’s not the final destination that is the fun part of the date.  It’s the little conversations that are breathed out within the two mile round trip we take in the evening.  “When did everything turn so green?” We are both mesmerized with the sprawling fields before us that cannot be bought or sold on e-bay.

We continue in silence soaking in the scene, and we are content.  There’s something holy about simply being together in the cab of the pick-up truck.  I comment, “I sure do appreciate how you do this each week with no fanfare or complaining!”  He shakes his head behooved that it even needs mentioning.  But it does, you know.  That would be my gift to him, words of affirmation.  They are spoken softly, but they are like duct-tape holding life’s baggage together for another week which will have us doing the simple, mundane, and uneventful things that must be done.  It’s not exactly a love poem, but it might as well be.  He receives the words.  He knows I care.  This quality time is a gift to both.

As we arrive home and I step out into the spring air, it reminds me of other times when seasons have changed and I have not noticed.  Usually busy with my nose in classroom preparations or keeping up at home, I have the tendency to lack awareness of the roses around me, so to speak.  And, even though his nose is in the newspaper, in the ledger organizing the farm finances, or keeping a small business running smoothly, he has taken time for me.  How do I know?  At some point each spring and fall as I enter the kitchen, there will be a hand-picked bountiful bouquet of Pussy Willows or Bitter Sweet awaiting me.  The sprawling, top heavy arrangement within the smaller vase looks ready to topple.  Like little gems upon each branch, they speak to me.  The language they speak is one of gift giving. 

There is an exchange between us.  Perhaps it’s a touch of the hand, or a little hug, nothing major is needed to satisfy the gift of touch.  I say, “I appreciate you!”  And with words of affirmation, the cycle begins once more.  There is a bonding of the heart each time we connect.

But you see, life is not always that simple.  The needs of each are real, and by speaking one another’s “Love Language,” they will hopefully hear, and will feel loved.  The book by Gary Chapman, “The 5 Love Languages, A Gift of the Heart” speaks of this.  For example, if I have one “love language” and my spouse has another, but I speak only my language to him, he will not hear nor feel loved.  It’s not rocket science.  Don’t get me wrong; life isn’t as smooth as writing these words that sum it all up in reflective fashion.  There are ups, and there are downs.  Some years are lean, and some years are overflowing with a peace that passes all understanding. 

Years ago, I collected a little advice from one elderly woman.  She said, “I can always go join the gypsies tomorrow.  Today I’m choosing to stay.”  Tomorrow will be better, barring abuse or other major stumbling blocks that tear down the walls that may need rebuilding with a more tools than this. 

Once, when I felt locked within the confines of our country home having four children, four and under, I was certain that living in a bigger city would bring more stimulation and health to my mind.  In speaking about this to someone, they simply raised one eye brow and said, “If you think that living with four children, ages four and under in a bigger city is going to be any easier, you are wrong!”  And, they were right.  My discontentment was rooted in thinking that the grass was greener somewhere else.  Now, as we dumpster date and drink freely of the green grass all around, I am grateful. 

All glory to Him, lest any man should boast. “He will supply all our needs.” (Phil. 4:19)  Amen.