Our story so far: Day Two of wall construction in the 126-year-old church was one of blood, sweat and tears.
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At one point, we had to reattach a top plate on a wall, which meant yanking out the nails to do it over again.
“Hold that there,” Tyler directed.
So I held the piece of wood at one end while he pounded out the board at the other end with a big hammer.
The board came off, and his end—complete with two angry nails sticking out of it—came down.
On his head.
“Blasted, Monica! I told you to hold it!”
Only he didn’t say “blasted.” And he still had the hammer in his hand. His eyes told me he wanted to use it on something other than lumber.
He was holding his forehead, and blood was running down his cheek. The nails in the board had grazed his head.
“Oh my god, are you OK?”
I understood from his grumble that he was. But he was bleeding like a Halloween decoration; that’s how it is with a head wound.
We had no Band-Aids at the church, so I held a paper towel to his forehead. “Use direct pressure to stop bleeding,” echoed in my head. I held the paper towel better than the piece of wood because eventually, the scratch clotted, and we got back to work.
But not without a little blood on the top plate of the powder room wall.
You’re wondering about the tears, I’ll wager.
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Today’s headline is a line from a Ralph Waldo Emerson’s poem not about marriage, but titled “Friendship.”
Tomorrow: Why we cried. Read about it here.