Cement mortar becomes hard when it cures, resulting in a rigid aggregate structure; however, the mortar is intended to be weaker than the building blocks and the sacrificial element in the masonry, because the mortar is easier and less expensive to repair than the building blocks.
~~ From Wikipedia, the free encylopedia
Mortar...
Several months ago, a few members of our small Baptist congregation met for a mid-week Bible study and prayer service. Very few people attend the prayer meeting, as lives are busy with work, school, and home responsibilities. Acutely aware of the low attendance, I asked an older member why there seemed to be so little interest in the midweek service and church attendance as a whole. He made a profound statement: The church today doesn't have mortar. We have the foundation and the bricks, but we lack the mortar.
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The time has come to fill and seal the irregular gaps of this romantic story ~ the unfolding, the unraveling, the ripening, the building, the perfecting, the resolving. This part of the story line occurs right after all trace of optimism is crushed and right before the author's timely delivery of the anticipated ending. Just like a huge cement truck with a rotating mixing drum, great romance writers know exactly how to spin together the mixed-bag of sacrificial elements to create a solid structure. The cement mixer is known as a transit drum, and it serves two purposes: 1) to avoid segregation or separation of all the ingredients while the truck is moving from one point to another and 2) to make sure none of the contents spill out of the drum. The internal spiral blades push the concrete or cement towards the inner zone of the drum. The drum rotates clockwise during transit. When reaching the point of the pouring out, the drum rotation is reversed, thus forcing the mixture to be slowly poured out for its desired purpose. Oh my goodness, I will never, ever look at a concrete truck the same again! If you want an object lesson about true love, just study the process of mixing cement mortar. If someone has read even a few romance novels, especially Regency novels, this is the tipping point where the story progression reverses, and the reader begins to smile. Ahh, the appearance of the mortar...
Something undefined, yet vital to the story occurs. The colors appear, the irregular gaps are filled, the binding begins, the story turns, and the unity forms. And I love it! Just thinking about it makes me beam with tenderness. All of the conflict and contention, the strife and struggle, the discord and disapproval changes direction. All those churning components are being transported from Point A to Point B, and the writer and reader (together) are nearing the arrival of the pouring out point ~ the intended target, the awaited depository, the ultimate destination.
For David and me, the rotation reversed on the kitchen floor of the Faircloth house. Although I loved my rental house and would remember it with fondness all my days, it was plagued with gang of vermin that had to be eradicated ~ MONSTER RATS the size of small dogs. The rats were not common house mice or even barn rats. These beastly rodents were field rats who, through no knowledge of how, when, or where, always ended up in the kitchen. When the first one appeared, I went absolutely ballistic! I had seen two additional rats, and this most recent one was number four. I called my neighbor "right down the road" and as usual, he came to the rescue.
After David chased the disoriented rat back into the field, he and I sat beside one another on the kitchen floor. Finally, I said what I knew we both were thinking. "David, this rental house is not working for me. I need something safer, free of peeping Toms and freakish field rats. My dad has offered me an acre of land. He and mom want me to move closer to them, which would actually be much better for me. My hours at the newspaper are so crazy, and my daughter will be closer to my entire family. I think my uncle and Mr. Pete, my dad's good friend, are going to build me a small cabin ~ something I can afford. I will only have to pay for the cost of the materials. I guess what I am trying to say is that I am not going to be your neighbor much longer."
Wait. For. It. The heart constricts, the breathing deepens, the churning stops for one brief moment ~ the mortar moment. David replied, "You know, Dianne, I have some money saved. I could help pay for the materials and help the men build the cabin. That is, if you want my help?" I knew exactly what he was asking. I said yes. He smiled and released a heavy sigh, "Besides good neighbors are hard to find." They sure were. The neighbor "right down the road" had finally ended his journey "straight into my heart." The bad apple had become the apple of my eye. David worked every weekend for the next few months to build our cozy little cabin. I can still see him shirtless, lean muscles exposed, a hammer in his hand and a mouthful of nails. I have the actual photograph to remind me, in case I ever forget!
The pouring out didn't stop with me. David began to empty all of his love into a precious little three-year-old. The two of them drove to the house site on Saturdays ~ my daughter sitting on the fold-down arm rest of his one-ton truck, her arm winding around his neck, and her pretty strawberry blond curls sporting one of his old work caps. That mighty mixing drum was turning, and the sacrificial mortar was being poured out on everyone. We were becoming a family. A reversing motion had taken place, and our lives were changing directions. We had reached the happy-ever-after, and the time had come to build.
David and I were married on the back deck of the cabin on Easter weekend ~ Saturday, March 29, 1986. I truly believe that weekend was significant for both of us ~ a rebirth or resurrection that I could not define or explain at the time. The newspaper's sports reporter, who was also a Methodist minister, married us. Ironically, no Baptist minister would perform my wedding, because I had been divorced. Thank the good Lord above for Bro. Cumberland ~ a diligent sports reporter and a kindhearted friend. Mortar. My daughter and my niece were flower girls, and they fought over flower petals the entire ceremony. My older cousin, a cherished family member and life-long best friend, served as maid of honor and referee between the two. My mom and her best friend created a beautiful three-tier white wedding cake covered in sugared-wisteria blooms. Mortar. My father walked me along one side of the cabin, and my two brothers escorted my mother to her seat from the opposite side. David's father served as his best man, and his half-brother served as ring bearer. Mortar. My co-worker and best friend, expecting her first child, attended the wedding, along with one of my best friends from high school. Another close friend, who had supported me throughout the preceding months, was present with her new husband ~ who also celebrated 30 years of marriage last year. Mortar.
I was 26; David was 20 ~ not even old enough to get married without his dad's permission. I had a college education; he had a recycling paper company. I had read all my life; he had worked all of his. I was the mother of a young daughter who needed a father; he was a grown son who needed a family. I was the editor of a newspaper; he was a bad apple. He was my husband, and I was his wife.
EPILOGUE: To be continued...
Dianne ;)
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