Shoveling, Once Again

This morning we had to go outside and deal with a heavy spring snow. Some background: for many years, I had a child in the young’ men’s program in the ward, and it was a young mens’ assignment to take care of snow removal for anyone in the neighborhood who could not do it themselves (elderly, single women, etc.). For many years, then, a snow in the night meant that the whole family rose early and went around the neighborhood taking care of our boys’ assignments. 

I am not a strong person. I have little stamina and even less muscle mass. Shoveling is hard work for me. 

I have written before about the experience of shoveling snow in my neighborhood with my teenage boys. For me, this service came to symbolize our commitment to being involved with a church. We served when it was not convenient. We served people we didn’t know well and, sometimes, had never even met. We served because we were asked to, and because we were committed to saying yes to requests based on our commitment to the church. During our service, we were blessed. We came to love the people in our neighborhood more. We grew closer together because we did this work together. Our children saw clearly what was expected from a committed member of the church. All of these things I see as good, and I’m glad to have been involved in that service for those years. 

But. Those mornings were hard. When my youngest left on his mission, I breathed a little sigh: now that we did not have any children in the young men’s program, that assignment would be passed on to other families and my husband and I could relax a little on snowy mornings knowing that no one else was depending on us and we needed only to take care of our own driveway. 

Alas, I had not counted on the fact that the whole ward was aging along with us. It turns out that many families no longer have young men at home, and in fact there are no longer enough young men in the ward to handle the assignments, and so the responsibility for snow removal has moved to include the Elders’ Quorum. And so our family has once again been given an assigned neighbor to take care of on snowy mornings. 

So this particular variety of rest is not to be ours. 

I’m OK with that—I have always felt that I would be uncomfortable taking a retirement from church service at any point in my life. My tasks might have to change according to my health, but I don’t plan to be “done” until I am done. 

But. Sometimes it’s hard. 

This morning, for example. Roger has sprained his shoulder somehow and has been doing rehabilitation exercises to get it back into shape and, hopefully, relieve pain. One of the worst things he can do during his recovery is shovel snow. No fear! We have a snowblower! 

Only, this morning the snowblower didn’t work. So Roger stood by, frustrated, watching as I and our young adult (attends another ward and so isn’t actually assigned to help in ours) shoveled the very heavy foot of snow off of our own driveway and sidewalk and then trudged to the neighbor’s house to shovel that one as well. My son is recovering from a cold and coughed the whole time he worked, and I, being extremely wimpy, worked very slowly in the heavy snow. 

Roger got the snowblower going at one point, and so drove it over to the neighbor’s in the Sequoia—but then could never get it going again. 

Frustrated, he got back into the Sequoia to drive the snowblower home (while we kept shoveling)—only to find that the Sequoia wouldn’t start. Its battery was completely dead. 

As I worked and laughed at the comedy of errors that we were, I remembered a moment this past weekend as our family was gathered around the television to watch General Conference. It was a great conference, one that left me with greater resolution to focus on Christ and serve with more intention. At one point, I looked around the room and saw my husband, three of my sons home from college (the fourth is on a mission), and my daughter-in-law, all listening carefully to prophets and enjoying the time together, and I felt such gratitude. Look at these good people I get to be with! What a joy that they all want to be here, that they’ve given up their personal interests to be here listening. What is more valuable than this? 

So, as I pushed and lifted snow, muscles aching, I reminded myself of that moment. I am blessed! 

And here’s where this very sweet little inspirational essay turns. 

The thing is, I can’t stand that I thought that happy little grateful thought just then, as I was miserably toting heavy snow. I think it’s kind of ugly, actually. It’s trite and cheesy and not even very true. 

For one thing, the fact that my kids chose to watch General Conference isn’t a sign of anything. It wasn’t a reward for making them shovel snow when they were younger. It wasn’t a sign that I was a good mother. It wasn’t even a sign that their hearts are in the right places (though they probably were)—there could be lots of reasons that a person chooses to be in a room at a given moment, and not all of them are healthy. I know people whose children would not be caught dead watching General Conference—and the children are good people, and the parents are good people, and good parents. 

There are reasons for not doing one’s “duty” to shovel a neighbor’s sidewalk. I’m not even sure that it was a 100% good thing that I did so this morning. 

I wish that I had been out there shoveling this morning out of love for the woman whose sidewalk I cleared, and not out of duty or even out of some mistaken sense of having to “pay” for the blessing of an active husband (when she has no husband at all). 

So, I guess what I’m saying is that life is messy. Service—or, at least, my service, is messy. The concept of “blessings” is messy. Even the concepts of obedience and duty are messy. 

I have a vague feeling of disappointment in myself, and I’m not even sure why. Maybe just the fact that I’m self-conscious about the whole thing, that I felt the need to tell a story about it then, as I worked, and now, as I write. 

Having said all that, though, I do have to say that I believe that God does want us to be grateful for sweet moments like the one I had while watching General Conference. And for physical strength and health like I have (wussy as it is) that enables me to actually get out of bed, walk down my driveway, lift a shovel. Heaven knows I spent a lot of time, at one bedridden stage in my life, wishing to be able to do those things. I am grateful for these things, and for a church community that cares for the people in its boundaries (members or not), whom I know would care for me if I needed it (and has done, including during that bedridden stage). I’m grateful, grateful. But I don’t want to tie my blessings to my service. I don’t believe they are connected. Or, rather, I believe that the connection is only what I want to make it be—that is, my service can make me love the neighbor I’m serving more, if I let it. And, usually, it does. 

It’s just that, well, this morning was a tough morning. 

And, as I gripe about it, I do believe God loves me anyway. That’s a blessing, too—perhaps the biggest one of all.