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A view from atop the Ark


Mr. Ark is up there on the roof right now—sweeping off pine needles, loosening moss, and hosing out gutters. He's been at it for two days now, while I've lain in bed recuperating from a cold and reading a Dick Francis novel and two entire magazines, including the advertisements (Outdoor Photography and Dwell). In Dwell, I found a men's ring so perfect for Mr. Ark that I now find myself wondering if a $67 Christmas present (already bought, wrapped, and hidden) is sufficient for a partner of such devotion.

I show my love through gift-giving, and through cards and postcards, and through little notes hidden here and there. He shows his love through service, and always has the same reply when I try to thank him. "Service is my life, Ma'am."

I'm a modern and independent woman—I earn a living, own my house, and can keep up with young men in a hay-bucking contest*—but cleaning roofs and clearing gutters is not on my list of strengths. My comfort on ladders only lasts as long as I can keep at least three limbs in full contact.

Here, then, is a view that I may never see in person: the roof of the Ark—cleaned with love.


*an actual thing, apparently. And no, I don't literally compete.
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