The Door, the Dumpster, and My Domestic Dramedy

If you ever want to test the strength of your marriage vows, forget counseling—just flood your basement. Nothing says “for better or worse” quite like mud, ruined furniture, and the unmistakable perfume of damp despair. Welcome to another episode of my Domestic Dramedy.

The dumpster was barely in the driveway when God showed up. The delivery guy casually mentioned his roof was leaking. Scott, my wood-making, ADHD, roof-selling husband, puffed up like Superman and declared, “I got you.” Within 24 hours, he had an inspection scheduled and a claim filed. What looked like a wasted workday turned into unexpected provision. God is good.

Then came the actual cleanup. Cue the arguments. I had one mission: throw everything out. Scott? “We can salvage that!” He wanted to save things that didn’t even want to be saved. Really—a mud-crusted cat litter box? A glove that looked more like roadkill than fabric?

We had the legendary door standoff: me versus Scott versus a swollen, waterlogged door. Spoiler—I won, WWE-style, shoving it into the dumpster. Then came the great furniture feud. A table and chairs had been sitting in the basement as Scott’s “project” for what felt like centuries. The chairs had fresh covers, but now the whole set was soggy and sprouting fuzz. I said toss it. Scott said keep it. Argument ensued. Guess who won again? This girl. Into the dumpster it went.

And somewhere between the bickering and the mud, I fell in love. With the wet vac. That glorious beast slurped up gallons of water like it was born to save me. Honestly, I almost divorced Scott and married the thing. But then the Libman floor squeegee (I love this thing) entered the picture. Oh, that squeegee. It glided across the concrete like a ballroom dancer, sweeping water out with grace. Between the wet vac and the squeegee, I didn’t know which one to pledge my heart to.

Of course, there were tears too. My new indoor/outdoor Christmas gnomes—ruined. All my Christmas gnomes and new Christmas decor from the prior year - ruined. As a kid, Christmas décor wasn’t in the budget, so those little guys were special. And then the grief of realizing nearly all of my mom’s belongings were gone. But in the rubble, God left me what mattered most: her two family Bibles. That reminder cut through the chaos like a flashlight in the dark.

By the end—between the wet vac romance, the squeegee fling, the door standoff, and the furniture feud—Scott and I were muddy, exhausted, sore… but still standing. Somehow, we even managed a hug and a high-five. God is good.

Floods come—literal and figurative. We cling to things we think we can’t let go of, but God reminds us He decides what’s worth keeping. The cleanup is messy, emotional, and often ridiculous, but He always preserves what matters most and provides in ways we never expect.

“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” — Matthew 6:19-21