231/365

The day starts as always, at the desk, with a cuppa, in early quiet. The annual plan leads me to James, and nearly first thing, I read "But he gives more grace..." On this day, perhaps that reminder serves as a touchstone, the standard by which everything else can be measured.

I have plans for this day. I have calculated the hours and my hopes soar high- a lot to be accomplished today, I am sure. Early, with the sun bright but not too far overhead, I exit my neighborhood and drive almost without thinking to pick up my friend, my partner in the morning activities. She has gifted us an old wooden cabinet, to be used as a wardrobe in our Mexico house. Disassembled and waiting transport across the border, today is the day.

The chickens squawk in her yard, always moving, and the dogs watch at the fence, tails wagging, as I back the behemoth tan van into the driveway. We load it up, sliding and stacking hard wood pieces and planks through the creaky doors, a puzzle awaiting reassembly. A quick stop to fill the tank and we head west and then eventually point south.

Crossing into Mexico is commonplace for me, but still, I whisper a prayer that the passage might be smooth today. We pay the toll, "Comprobante, por favor," and enter the bridge over the river, cruising past commuters making their way to the States. Stopping at customs control on the Mexican side, we hope AVANCE, for the green light to go ahead. We get the red light and pull forward to the right. The customs official asks us to unlock the doors and looks in the back. We wait in silence, watching in the rear view mirror to see what's next. I am ever aware that I am the sojourner, the guest here, at the mercy of this official. "This is wood. For what is the wood? Where are you going?," he questions us. Yes it is wood, I agree. We hear an explanation, that we should pay a customs fee for the wood, though I explain that it's not lumber, it's a cabinet, used, ready to be reassembled. There is silence. "Well, this time you can go, but next time you need to pay." "Sí, claro que sí, muchas gracias," I tell him, while thinking, "there will be no next time."
But he gives more grace.

We wind our way to our little house, the river visible through the brush, cows grazing by the side of the road, dust kicking up alongside. They are burning at the dump today and the stale smell of smoke hangs in the air. Here too, the dogs come to greet us and we can hear the chickens cluck and peep and cackle behind the wall next door. I start a pot of coffee, remembering the water from the refrigerator and not filling the pot at the sink We unload the boards, ready to play carpenter.

My friend, she starts sanding rough edges, determined that this aged piece will once again look presentable in our house. She makes me promise to paint the boards once we are finished, and I agree, though I can't imagine being bothered a bit by some nail scarred planks in my room. Those scars tell a story, I think. We begin the process of assembly. We hammer and square and hammer some more when we don't hit the nail square on the head. The vibrations reverberate off the concrete block walls. I close my eyes to the pounding. Finally we are ready to lift the skeleton upright.

But here's the rub. Either the floors, or the ceiling, or both, slope because the very tight clearance becomes none once the frame stands erect. Well, not quite erect. We ponder how to fix it, and come upon a plan without the base, giving us a few more inches clearance. We pound some more, one handing nails, one hammering, like the most violent surgeon and her assistant.  My friend, the mastermind, steps back and quietly studies our work and realizes, this is not going to work. We  scheme some more and hatch up Plan B. We pull nails and rearrange boards and lift and scoot and move the base into place underneath and pummel the nails once again. Victory.
But he gives more grace.

We finish the work in the bedroom and move to the kitchen where the same crooked conundrum waits.  We give up early on the second cabinet, realizing the sun is high and our time is short and the bridge line is long and what we really need here is a table saw. We clean up dust and put away tools and lock up doors and chain gates and finally pull away. It requires some navigation to get to the bridge, construction detours along the way. I count pesos for a toll, inching slowlyslowly towards the Ready Lane, weekend traffic queued deep.  We talk through the wait, pondering life and our God and our call. The words come effortlessly, but we also know the ease of comfortable silence, and can speak volumes to the other with only a look. We have few boundaries, yet know how to navigate the hard places gently. We have known each other a lot of years, and have earned unusual and extraordinary trust, a rare privilege in life to walk with a friend like this.
But he gives more grace.

We plan a quick stop for ice tea and a sandwich. Once across the border and back in US cell phone range, my friend's phone lights up, the text and message boxes filling in an instant. A message from our dear widow friend comes through; she is frustrated with computer problems. We will pass her exit soon and can make a quick bypass along the way. We enter her little house and crowd in her bedroom to assess the problem. My friend taps this and that on the keyboard, without success. We look for Internet help, and still, the wheel on the screen spins. A few glimmers of hope, but no real progress, we concede, again, that perhaps we aren't enough. We promise to find help and leave with a hug.
But he gives more grace.

The day ends well, though perhaps not the way I envisioned it might be. Cabinets left unfinished, tasks in progress, work at home yet to start. And yet tomorrow holds the promise of sabbath rest and my heart is full.
But he gives more grace.