The Parable of the Front Door

I married a man who is almost the exact opposite of the father I grew up with. My dad and brothers are all very hands on and know how to make things work (ie: cars, bikes, tools, and the like). Bucky spent most of his high school goofing around, making people laugh, and pursuing music. Bucky is just as smart as anyone I've met and has a creative side that is seemingly endless.

When we were first married I constantly compared him to my dad. Unfairly, but I did it just the same. And he did it like wise with me and his mother. I constantly felt like I had to live up to this larger than life, amazing woman that he called mom. Over the years, we have relaxed a bit and realized that I will never be his mother and he will never be my father. Thankfully! We are our own people and have unique qualities that we both benefit from.

Fast forward two years ago when we bought our house. It's a cute little house built in 1942. The rooms are small and cozy and it has been remodeled some. Except the front door. Just painted. Bucky has been battling that front door since we've moved in. He's tried to make the seal better with weather stripping and we've put a towel at the bottom to stop the draft. To no avail. It's still drafty and the dead bolt doesn't work and you have to literally hip check it to close. Not good. So, yesterday he had had enough. He went to Home Depot determined to fix the problem. After applying two different weather strips and pulling them off again, he finally found one that worked. The door shut perfectly. Dead bolt and everything. Miracles never cease. :)

But Bucky was determined to fix the draft, so he installed a sweep along the bottom of the door to stop the draft. We took the door off the hinges and nailed it on. Perfect. The door now has no air coming in. The only problem is is that it will now not open. The carpet is higher than the thresh hold. Bucky got really discouraged and said something to the effect of of "Look at all these stupid unfinished projects I have around the house. I can't fix anything."

In previous years I might have concurred with him, but this time I realized that it didn't matter. It matters to me that he tries and fails more than if he doesn't try at all. It matters that he makes me happy and that he makes other people happy. It matters that he's a great father. And you can't compare that to anything else, really.