It started so innocently. I slid open the freezer bin and pulled out the frozen bell pepper I’d been slicing for my veggie eggs every morning. (I’ve found that peppers freeze very well, as long as you’re going to cook them—they tend to be a little mushy upon defrosting.) Normally, I have to run some hot water over the pepper before I can get my knife through it, but this time, I had no problem. Yes, it was frozen, but not as rock hard as I expected.
Hmmm, I thought. Maybe the freezer is going through its defrosting cycle. No worries.
Come early afternoon. I decided to finish off my lunch with a tiny scoop of ice cream. The carton seemed a bit… squishy. And when I dug in my spoon, I realized that the remaining rocky road was soup. Then I noticed the growing puddle on the kitchen floor. The ice cubes were melting. Oh no.
Funny that this should come right after my last post, on Waiting for Direction…
I’m spoiled, I know. I haven’t had to hold a permanent, paid job since I quit teaching with the birth of our first child. That “child” is now in her early 30s. I’ve been busy, mind you. On our income tax, I always list my occupation as “volunteer.”
I’ve volunteered in our daughters’ classrooms, as a docent at a wildlife refuge, for various mission organizations, as a Colorado Master Gardener, for our local chapter of the National Audubon Society, and at churches—rocking babies, in Sunday school classrooms, with youth groups, on mission committees, in kitchens, as administrative help, you name it and I’ve done it. Some of these positions have involved many hours a week for years at a time.
But the thing about volunteering is you don’t earn any money. Lots of heart-felt appreciation, mind you, but appreciation doesn’t pay the bills.