Life is messy, even when you mean well

Today — not for the first time and probably not the last— I was reminded of the epitaph I want engraved on my headstone:

"Here lies Sharon. G0D bless her, she meant well."

The morning started quietly. I was sitting on the sofa, deleting junk mail from my laptop and trying hard to wake up.

My husband sat at the table doing the daily crossword puzzle in ink. It's a habit he picked up from his father, who was one of the smartest, dearest men I ever met, and a major factor in my decision to marry his son.

"OK," said Mr. Crossword Wizard, "here's one for you."

That's what he says when he's stumped by a clue and is hoping it will stump me, too. Come to think of it, he says that a lot.

I looked up from my laptop and tried to focus my eyes.

"What's a six-letter word," he said, "for 'almost perfect'?"

Instantly, I shouted, "Sharon!"

Coffee snorted out his nose. "Yes," he said, "you are almost perfect. But, sorry, that's not it."

"What do you mean 'almost'?"

It turned out to be "A-minus," which isn't one word, but two, or one and a half, with no blank for a hyphen, all of which struck me as far too sneaky and should not have been allowed as a clue.

That may explain why doing crossword puzzles is not what you'd call one of my "gifts." I'm not gifted at much of anything. Except maybe making a mess.

When my children were small, I'd find spills on the floor, smears on the walls or stains all over my clothing. And I'd think to myself, be patient, someday they'll leave home and take their messes with them. Imagine my surprise after they left, and the messes kept showing up. The kids didn't make them. I did.

Sometimes I'm busy doing something and I'll hear a voice that says, "You'd better quit that right now or you'll be sorry."

I know that voice well. It sounds like my mother. I never listened to her much, either.

So I'll drop a stack of dishes that I knew was too heavy. Or give a nail an extra tap that shatters the wall. Or burn my fingers on a pot and nearly lose my religion because I didn't want to find a hot pad. You get the picture. It's not pretty.

After my husband left for work, I got busy. We were leaving the next day to drive to the Grand Canyon. The trip was his idea. Growing up in the Carolinas, fall was my favorite season. We live in Las Vegas, where fall is a display in the gardens at the Bellagio. He knew I was missing the real deal. So he said, let's go find it. Yes, he is a lot like his dad.

I don't know about you, but I hate coming home from a trip to a fridge full of slimy produce. So I started cleaning it out. Which would've been fine, but there was a lot of it —lettuce, spinach, celery and beets— and I didn't want to waste it. I know, I thought, I'll juice it and we can drink it before we hit the road!

Yes. That's where I should've heeded the voice saying, "Stop now, or you'll be sorry later!"

Instead, I crawled under the counter, pulled out a juicer I hadn't used in years, dusted it off, set it up and went to work.

Never mind how it happened. Suffice it to say I ended up with several million slimy green blobs on the counter. And the floor. And the ceiling. And me. And my favorite pink sweater.

In the two hours it took to clean it up, I thought of other messes I have made. The worst aren't splattered juice or broken glass or burnt fingers.

They're words I shouldn't have said. Promises I should've kept. Hearts I never meant to break.

We all make a mess of things once in a while. We can only try to clean it up, make amends if we can, and hope to be forgiven.

The best thing about knowing you aren't perfect is it makes you more forgiving. Trust me. It's hard to be judgmental of others when you've been covered in slimy green blobs.

Even if you meant well.

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Award-winning essayist Sharon Randall's weekly column has an estimated readership of 6 million nationwide. Born and reared in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North and South Carolina, Randall grew up in Landrum, S.C., and has lived for 35 years in "California of All Places."