CATCHING SHINGLES

This is one of the many stories I wrote about a memorable service trip in 2007

“I have never seen a female so dirty.”    The woman speaking was in awe at the revised state of my formerly pale complexion.  We were two of the brave feminine volunteers at SWAP in Kentucky and I was on my way to the “shower” (…and trust me, I am using that term loosely). 

Reminiscent of an owl, I sported white circles around my eyes from sunglasses.  My burnt skin was precisely the color of slate, having spent a blazing hot day removing an ancient splintering roof.  My morning had begun on the ground.  Naively wearing my fancy new nail belt and uncomfortable boots, I occupied myself by re-positioning old roofing material as it was flung willy-nilly from the roof of a tiny dilapidated house.  The ‘flingers’ were my church friends.  They were male, bursting with testosterone, and pleased with their Spiderman-like ability to walk vertically and swiftly on a slanted roof without appearing the least bit concerned about gravity.  Serious show-offs...  After backbreaking hours of shoveling heavy fractured shingles onto my wheelbarrow, I’d had enough.  So I bravely ascended the ladder to join the shingle-throwers. 

I spent a good hour on top of the house (otherwise known as the surface of the sun.)  My concerned husband checked on me regularly, certain I would return prudently to the ground.  But I was determined.  To the delight of the "He-Men" with whom I shared the roof, I never did manage to stand fully erect.  I preferred instead to travel like a handicapped crab, getting pretty efficient at yanking old nails with the back of my hammer.  Who knew those hammer "horns" had a use other than providing Feng Shui balance to the tool?  Flinging shingles was a little more exhilarating than it appeared from below.  But roof rubble packs considerably more weight than imagined. On several occasions I nearly flung myself off the roof with my cargo. 

 And so it was, I learned the art of roofing and volunteer service.  Lying in my musty bunk that week, my aching muscles told an emerging story.  The tale of a fragile Mennonite woman venturing out of her safe cocoon and into a place where filthy sunburned skin translated wonderfully into a more inhabitable home for some new-found friends.