Tribute to a father-in-law and a few dead potatoes.

After a brief, polite knock at the door, my father-in-law walked into my kitchen last night. "Have you recovered?" he asked me with real concern.

"Oh, yes, I'm fine. I suppose it could have been worse...I could have been inside Brother Henrie's house."

We chatted a moment longer before he left me...with the memory of good intentions gone awry.

Just minutes before Dad's thoughtful visit, he and I had both arrived at a neighbor's house, bearing food offerings to help with the recent passing of Brother Henrie's wife. My potato casserole (morbidly called "funeral potatoes" around here) was piping hot in the dish as I quickly carried it to the house. At the same time that I heard my father-in-law call out a greeting to me, the wind picked up, and the foil covering suddenly blew off the dish. I instinctively grabbed for the foil with one hand, balancing the casserole with the other hand. Tried to balance, that is. Seemingly in slow motion, and right before my eyes, Dad's eyes, and the eyes of many Henrie family members--the potatoes plummeted to the ground. Splat.

For five seconds, the whole embarrassing episode seemed like a metaphor for my day-to-day life: work for a while at a task only to have it destroyed completely. Wash the dishes while the playroom is torn apart. Take a shower while the couch cushions are thrown about the living room. Vacuum while flower pots are dashed to pieces on the patio. (These are not hypothetical examples, by the way.) All that went through my mind, and I wasn't laughing yet because it wasn't three hours past the event .

I did not cry. But I felt like it. Instead, I quickly scooped up the still hot pile with my hot pads, drove home stunned, and dumped the mess into the trashcan. By the time Dad arrived at the door, possibly five minutes later, I actually was feeling fine and recovered. Because on the short drive home, I had somehow channeled the experiences of women of yesteryear (I keep reading WWII books) who had real problems, real discouragement, and real tenacity. Sappy thoughts, I know, but better than crying over spilled potatoes.

An hour later, Matt arrived home and announced we were going for treats. He insisted I choose the place of yumminess, and since he has sworn off treats lately, I suspected he had received word of the potato flop. "Dad felt so bad for you, that he put money in my hand and told me take you for ice cream," Matt confessed. They both know my sweet-loving heart.

So, just in case my mental state was not already on the mend, Dad's compassion and generosity guaranteed a good ending.