Strong Enough to Rest

Ten years ago my husband and I rebuilt a deck.

Well...technically I spent six weekends sanding the old deck before he drove down one weekend to join me, sanded the deck for less than an hour, and announced,

"We're buying new boards."

Looking back, he wasn't wrong.

I was just deeply offended by how quickly he reached the conclusion I had spent six weekends knowing but trying to do what he asked all the same.

And honestly?

That pretty much sums up our marriage.

There are two kinds of married couples, people.

The ones who go wine tasting on the weekends.

And the ones whose idea of a date is wandering the aisles of Home Depot debating whether pressure-treated lumber is worth the extra money.

(Obviously it is.)

I'm married to the second kind.

Honestly...

So is he.

This summer has reminded me of that in more ways than I expected.

We came to our family's little lake cabins expecting another summer on the water.

You know...

Coffee in the rocker on the porch.

Kids catching fireflies.

Lazy afternoons floating in the lake.

The occasional Fourth of July firework story that somehow ends with someone pulling the garden hose so hard that it pops off the outside faucet and sprays water everywhere except where you need it.

Because that's just how family memories are made.

These cabins aren't just old.

They are fourth-generation-old.

They have been loved, repaired, patched, upgraded, and occasionally held together with equal parts hardware, duck tape and pure stubbornness.

They have stories in every board.

Instead, this year the cabins greeted us with a to-do list.

The boat needed work.

The jet ski wasn't running correctly.

The patio stairs broke.

The boat lift needed attention.

And then, just when we finally relaxed enough to float in the water and feed turtles with our kids, my husband and I heard the same thing.

Bubbles.

Not the fun kind.

The "there's-a-crack-in-the-pontoon" kind.

Apparently, even while floating in the lake, we are still doing diagnostics.

My aunt walked by while we were rebuilding the stairs the other day and laughed.

"You two need a better hobby. Do you guys like puzzles?"

We both laughed because just five minutes earlier we had been joking that our dates usually involve Home Depot or fixing something together.

The funny thing is...

I don't actually mind.

Working together has become one of my favorite things.

It wasn't always that way.

If I'm being honest, the beginning of our marriage was two fiercely independent people trying very hard to remain independent.

Somewhere along the way, "your project" and "my project" quietly became "our project."

It probably helped that after years of deployments, owning our own home, raising two kids, and navigating all the chaos that comes with adulthood, I finally told my husband something very plainly:

"If you are going to fix things, I need to be next to you learning how to fix them too."

Because let's be honest...a YouTube video can only get you so far.

I was lucky growing up to have a dad who was incredibly knowledgeable when it came to mechanics and fixing things. Even though he was gone a lot, I absorbed more than I realized. That gave me a little more confidence than the average person walking into a hardware store wondering which end of a wrench to hold.

But here's the thing about learning:

You never know everything.

The moment you think you do is probably the moment you need to humble yourself, open your mind, and go learn something new.

There is always another skill to learn, another problem to solve, and another person who knows something you don't.

And honestly?

That's part of the fun.

Anyway back to my story….

Ten years ago, we rebuilt the deck at these cabins.

Well...

Technically I spent six weekends sanding the old deck before my husband came down with me, sanded for less than an hour, looked at me, and announced,

"We're buying new boards."

To this day, I'm still slightly offended by how quickly he reached the conclusion I had spent six weekends avoiding.

Although, I will admit...

I still hate gray paint.

Once we picked up the new boards, we worked like people in our twenties tend to work.

We started early.

We stopped late.

We took maybe one break all day.

The sun was relentless, but we didn't care.

Somehow we believed pushing through exhaustion was just what capable adults did.

Fast forward ten years.

This week we rebuilt the patio stairs.

Same husband.

Same wife.

Same summer heat.

(Actually...I think it was hotter.)

Completely different people.

We took breaks.

We stopped around lunchtime.

We drank more water than coffee.

On the first day I asked if he wanted me to bring out the patio umbrella.

Without hesitation he said,

"Men don't need shade."

I didn't argue.

I did, however, roll my eyes and mutter something about men being stubborn (not my actual wording but this is a family blog) under my breath.

The next morning, I brought out the umbrella anyway.

No permission.

No discussion.

Just shade.

I even set up a fan.

About thirty minutes later, he looked up from the stairs and said,

"...This shade is actually pretty nice."

Reader...

I have never felt so vindicated in my entire marriage.

It wasn't even that he admitted I was right.

It was that we had both quietly changed.

Ten years ago we measured success by how much we could endure.

Now we measure success by whether we can still move tomorrow.

That's not getting old.

That's getting smarter.

I've realized something else this summer too.

Being capable is a wonderful thing.

But capable people have a bad habit of believing they should carry everything.

The repairs.

The planning.

The maintenance.

The responsibility.

Somewhere along the way, "I can do it" quietly becomes,

"I guess it's my job."

Those aren't the same thing.

This summer reminded me that not every problem I notice has to become my project.

Sometimes it's enough to notice it, tell the right person, and let someone else own the repair.

My husband and I genuinely enjoy solving problems together.

Give us a loose board, a broken stair, or a mystery noise coming from a boat, and we will probably wander over to investigate.

It's who we are.

But I've also learned that not every loose screw belongs in my toolbox.

Not every broken thing is mine to fix.

The stairs still got built.

The boat will get repaired.

The cabins will keep standing.

We just learned to do it with more water breaks, more shade, and a little less pride.

Maybe that's what growing older really looks like.

Not doing less because we can't.

Doing less because we finally understand we don't have to prove anything anymore.

Sometimes the strongest thing you can do isn't working until sundown.

Sometimes it's sitting under an umbrella with the person you love, watching your kids play in the same place you and your cousins used to play, looking out at the lake...

and admitting that the shade and a water break feel pretty nice too.