Moved

My past month has been engulfed in the myriad of things there are to do when one is moving. My parents were incredibly unselfish with their time and help, spending a month of Saturdays helping me pack, unpack, hang pictures and drapes, and shop for furniture (I could write another post on The Great Desk Fiasco of 2013, but I'm going to opt out of that post). I was also helped incredibly by this kind man in my previous ward who lent his truck, van, and two sons to the effort - no small effort given that I moved from a third floor apartment. He was also the first person to introduce himself to me when I first started attending that ward. I don't think that's a coincidence.

My dad said that two Saturdays ago when he showed up to help me unpack it was really discouraging; he found me sitting in a corner of the room, surrounded by stacks of boxes, throughly exhausted and sweaty. Being the kindly sort of man that he is, though, he didn't say this when he first showed up - instead he said something like "oh, you still have a lot of work to do." And somehow he helped me get a second wind and we got to it. When we finished up with a box, I tossed it down the stairway entry, partly because it was really helpful in seeing what was left but partly because I just enjoy throwing things down stairs and off balconies. My strategy did make for a funny moment when it came time for my dad to leave and we saw this:

Which led to this conversation:

Me: "I think we're just going to have to cut our way out."

Dad: "Don't you think we could just push them all to the bottom of the stairs?"

Me: "How, exactly? Would you like to bodysurf them?"

Which convinced him to cut his way out.