In my defense, I was hot. Not in a ‘I’m in my 20s and don’t have to wear Spanx yet’ hot, but a sidewalk-egg frying contest kind.

I’m past menopause but still get some aftershocks of hot flashes. There are times when I open doors in the frozen foods section at Walmart, not to buy anything, but just for a brief burst of cool air. I could pull up a chair and stay there all day, but I worry my body heat would melt the contents, which would be difficult to explain to the store manager unless she were over 50.

But this day I am hot for another reason. And yes, we do still consider ourselves newlyweds, but not that kinda hot either. I’m 63, okay?

Mark and I were born and raised in Georgia, in the heart of the Bible Belt. Southerners are generally and at times abnormally polite people, and as such, there are unwritten but well-understood rules when meeting new folks. There are slight differences depending on the area. In Atlanta, when meeting someone for the first time, it is considered polite to ask, “What do you do for a living?” In Savannah, the question is, “What do you want to drink?” In my hometown of Macon, it is “What church do you go to?”

It is difficult to throw a rock and not hit a church in Macon, GA. I know one reason why.

Similar to the experiences in the movie Scared Straight, Maconites have faced the fires of Hell daily during July and August. There is no escape, because as soon as the front door opens, a steamy, humid blast of air hits, and beads of sweat appear, running down the backs of shirts.

It’s hot. And nobody wants to experience this heatwave for eternity.

Mark and I are moving into my parents’ old home, which we are remodeling before we move in. At the same time, we are cleaning, fixing, and packing up our old house to get it ready to sell.

Why, oh why did we pick July, when the fires of Hell rage?

It’s so hot.

Each day, we work as hard as our aging backs allow, then collapse into bed, only to start again the next day. Like any project, it tends to get worse before it gets better. We give away tons of clothes we don’t wear or fit in anymore, and the rest seems to fluff back up. Furniture is donated, and more appears, having been forgotten and stuffed into closets. It is relentless.

It’s also hard to part with our ‘stuff’. I think about how much money we’ve spent on this or that, some of which still has tags on. We compromise, but not without some eye rolls.

It’s hot, and our tempers are too.

Mark is a pretty even-keeled guy. The only time he gets mad is about an hour before mealtimes. When his eyebrows start to get rounded and he opens and closes the refrigerator door a lot, I know it’s time to toss him a piece of chocolate from a distance. Don’t poke the bear, feed him.

I was moving plants from one house to another. Mark offered to dig holes in our hard Georgia clay, which I declined. I was hot, exhausted, and angry. I was kicking myself because I knew I should have started this project early in the morning when it was cooler, but that opportunity had passed.

I’m not a morning person. I usually stay in the corner, nursing a cup of coffee until I start to feel human, around 9:30. Mark is ridiculously cheerful in the morning but has learned to keep away when I become the bear. He tries to soothe me with a piece of bacon every day, placed on a napkin pushed carefully towards me. Gnaw, gnaw.

I was sweating buckets and getting nowhere. I couldn’t make a dent in the concrete-like soil. I reluctantly and grudgingly agreed to let Mark dig me some holes. That made me even angrier.

He dug several holes, and I started mixing in soil conditioner to improve the clay. I wouldn’t let myself look at Mark or thank him, not even a little.

I could see Mark out of the corner of my eye. He was lifting our big red umbrella off the table on the deck.

What now? Why was he messing with that when I was dying of heat?? Didn’t he have something to do in the house instead of bothering ME??

He came down the stairs to where I was and held this huge patio umbrella over my head to shield me from the hot Georgia sun.

I swung my head around to face him and yelled, “WHY are you being NICE to ME??”

“I want to be mad!”

I didn’t even realize what I was saying, nor how crazy I sounded. Deep down, I knew I was acting like an overheated, angry toddler.

Mark glanced sideways at me, hesitated, then folded and set down the umbrella. For a moment, I thought he would walk back up the steps and into the house, leaving me to wallow in my temper tantrum.

Instead, he took my hand and led me back to the house, into the air conditioning. He told me I needed to rest for a while.

I deserved anger, but I received grace.

Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?

God is good, even when we throw tantrums like toddlers. He patiently waits, showing grace through a husband who is just as tired and worn out as I am.

God knows. He sees. He didn’t forget us.

And by the way, God did NOT forget you either.

2 Corinthians 12:9:

“But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.”