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Dear Miquelin,

I had to record this for myself (I'm trying to not forget biggie learning experiences) but I also like blogging about people for their birthdays, so Happy 40th! Here is a refresher of how you changed my world with orzo, multiple washcloths, and elbow grease:

New Year’s Eve, 2019. I popped some poppers, made some resolutions in my spankin’ fresh 2020 notebook, and planned for a spectacular year.

Days later: pain.

More days later: crazy pain and an MRI.

Five weeks later: neurosurgeon met and microdiscectomy scheduled six weeks out.

After doing absolutely nada in the living or resolution department for 2020, I was depressed. I was either in knife-stabbing pain or the drowsy fog of Lortab, my boys watched a lot of screens, and I woke up every day wondering how I’d get to the next. I just had to make it to March 25.

Lucky break: someone cancelled and my surgery was rescheduled for March 16.

I had fourteen days left to eek it out when you heard from a mutual friend what was going on. I believe there are two key things to point out about you right here. One, you had a microdiscectomy a few years ago and knew exactly what I felt like. Two, you’re one of those odd people that doesn’t believe in written recipes yet throws tasty food together with ease. I happen to have a loose recipe for the lunch you made me when I first moved here:

orzo pasta + pan-fried chicken sprinkled with lemon pepper + roasted asparagus, peppers, mushrooms, and garlic + generous lemon squeezes + parmesan + pine nuts

The first time you made it for me we cleansed our garlicky palettes with leftover Sunday brownies. You had me at “day-old brownie”; I considered purchasing the two-piece best friends necklace from Claire’s.

Anyway, you heard of my spinal distress and literally called me that very minute and left a message offering to bring me lunch. Embarrassed I’d evolved into a 90-year old woman in less than two months, but also starving, I texted you back. You responded, “See you in 5 minutes.”

I was so excited to see a friendly face…and then I started looking around at my neglected house. Everything from the waist-up was clean, but I had not been able to bend or twist for months and my petting zoo floors were beyond gross. Embarassed ex-perfectionist, check. I had the thought, “I don’t need lunch. I need someone to clean my nasty floors.”

*DING DONG*

I hobbled to the door, opened it, forced a weak smile. You watched me take a few steps to the kitchen as you hauled your oversized, soft-sided cooler to the counter.

“Oh, Meliss. This is not good. I can tell how badly you are hurting. Go rest. Where are your pans?”

I complied, but with inner friction. Asking for help is personally impossible for me, receiving help is marginally less awful. I was a room away but start smelling lemon pepper. She’s making the orzo. Holy eureka I'm happy.

The veggies had to roast 15 minutes; you asked me where my cleaning supplies were. This was the ultimate crossroad of My Worst Nightmare and Dream Come True. I revealed the secret hiding place of the cleaning supplies. You cleaned my tidy half bath, the nearly unused guest bath, and the boys’ blue toothpaste/urine drip bathroom before the veggies were done, all the while I was inhaling deep breaths and letting the scent of roasted garlic mask my shame.

We ate. It felt like dining al fresco by the seaside somewhere in Europe—it was the best food I’d eaten in months (wheat thins aren’t a complete dinner?). I was so grateful three of my four bathrooms were sparkling. As we wrapped up, you stood and started loading your cooler. Olive oil, salt, cutting board. Sheesh, I have those things. You didn’t need to haul olive oil to my house.

Then the words I will never forget:

“Okay. Are you going to let me clean YOUR bathroom, or are you going to be stubborn?”

I was not stubborn, but I totally wretched inside. I knew my bathroom was the dirtiest; the little toilet room’s floor was actually fuzzy. I stayed in the kitchen for a few minutes as to not lurk but eventually walked in and will never forget the image of my friend on her hands and knees scrubbing my disgusting floor clean. You tried to play it down, too, telling me how you had way grosser cleaning jobs in college (like cleaning the toilet of a mechanic shop) and way dirtier experiences as a nurse. I wanted to believe you.

After you left, I realized how much you taught me about acting godlike.

It is godlike to look at others in their weakest—and therefore most vulnerable—state and treat them with dignity.

It is godlike to clean up a mess someone has been hiding in a way that doesn’t humiliate them.

It is godlike to carefully, oh so carefully, embrace another without popping their frail emotional stitches.

It is godlike to know exactly how another’s hurt feels, yet tiptoe around their open wounds until they are ready to address—or dress—them.

It is godlike to feed someone before you teach someone (John 21:12-13).

Of course, my surgery was cancelled at 10 pm on March 15 when the pandemic broke loose. Miraculously, my back healed without surgery and I am inches away from doing cobra pose with straight arms. My spinal life is good! My bathrooms are decent!

You also opened my eyes to how I need to pray better—with more specific and real intent—since every prayer is basically like having lunch with Heavenly Father. I can either politely chew and say how great things are between bites, or I can ask Him to have the Savior clean my horrid, fuzzy bathrooms since the Savior already knows what bad discs feel like (and He’s already cleaned way worse, for real).

Lots of love,

Melissa

"Miquelin" is pronounced like "Jacquelin" but with a "my" instead of "jack"

Photo of my bathroom floor. Nothing cleans hex tiles like compassion.