I'm sore in muscles I didn't even know existed.

My husband is an arborist, and his job involves tree care and a lot of tree removals. There hasn't been enough work for him or his coworkers this winter, so he's been the "house spouse" since Thanksgiving. But since he's likely to be called back in to work in the next few weeks, and I have a friend who needs a few trees removed from her backyard, it seemed like the right time to get him ready for the rigors of his job by volunteering to help him with these tree removals.

I'm not really sure what I thought I was going to do Saturday to help, especially since my only experience with tree work was to watch Jeremy trim the huge elms next door last fall (a neighbor and I pulled up chairs on the driveway and watched — it's really amazing to behold). I suppose I thought I'd respond to things like "Would you please hand me the pole saw" or "If I fall making this cut, call an ambulance."

Instead, I got to play the part of a groundsman, tossing ropes up to him in the tree, guiding tree sections to a narrow drop zone (between a fence and some electrical wires) by pulling on the rope tied to the trunk while Jeremy notched and cut that part of the tree, crawling over and falling into the dead branches that were strewn about the base of the tree (imagine 1,000 rakes being dropped like pick-up sticks; now walk on top of them to get something lying in the middle of them—you're going to step on something somewhere that causes a rake handle to fly up and smack you), glaring incredulously and refusing to heed the instructions "Just toss the pole saw up to me, and I'll catch it" (who in their right mind throws a saw in the air?!).

He probably could have finished all the removals if he'd had a more experienced (and less wimpy, and better prepared) groundsman, but Jeremy was patient and sympathetic the whole morning. After I got hit in the face with a branch (seriously, it was like walking in a bed of rakes) after falling into more deadwood, I began to realize that this is why he comes home so tired. Rather than getting irritated at having to be more involved than I'd planned (or dressed for), I figured this was my chance to go beyond the watch-your-husband-at-work day I'd experienced in September and instead walk a mile in his boots in a kind of take-your-wife-to-work day. Because while I could imagine what it was like for him to do his job, I didn't really know how he actually felt at the end of the day.

That afternoon, Jeremy urged me to take antacids to keep me from feeling too sore the next few days, but I refused. I wanted to remember how it feels to be him. I wanted to be able to sympathize with him, the way that Christ is able to sympathize with us (Hebrews 4:15).

It's a few days later now. My bruises are beginning to fade. The scratches are starting to heal. My muscles are still aching in places I didn't expect. But I feel I know my husband better — how taxing his work is, what dangers he faces, the satisfaction of tree care well done. I know where to rub his back, and I understand why he doesn't feel like taking dance classes during the busy season. And that makes it worth every bump, bruise, abrasion and ache.

I’m ashamed to admit it, but the mouse almost won. Here’s what happened …

My wife has her master’s degree in education and a lot of teaching experience. I have a degree in science with many years of research practice. Therein rests a problem: We’re both very good at what we do, and we both assume “expert” status when seated at the Computer Throne.

You can almost smell the aroma of harmonious bliss wafting through the air, like freshly baked cookies, as we lovingly pursue Web searches together, can’t you?

Um, maybe not.

Our shared computer time can be more like a violent scene from Lord of the Rings. Whoever’s in control of the mouse -- “My Precious” -- controls the computer. Violence, treachery, scratching, biting, flying pencils and angry chases too often result from our individual efforts to control the mouse; meanwhile, the Eye of Google slowly scans the horizon for another victim …

Several weeks ago, we needed some information from the Web quickly. My wife beat me to the Computer Throne, but I crouched over her like a giant, dopey spider. She searched -- her way -- for the information. My way was quicker, of course, so I tried to take control of the mouse. I used the Abrupt-Snatch technique. Can you believe, she bit me on the forearm?!

Justice had to be served for her juvenile expression of anger. So, I gave her a very mature noogie-scrub on the head. She launched from the Computer Throne and a chase took us into the living room.

Here’s the great irony. Our kids were watching their parents … act like kids! Eventually, everyone broke out in laughter (and humility) when we realized the goofy drama being played out. Blame the mouse!

Seems silly, doesn’t it? We’re pursuing the same thing, but we just have different ways of finding it. As husbands and wives, we can be somewhat intolerant of our spouse’s “ways,” even though we both arrive at the same end. This is such a vivid picture of marriage as a whole.

Our story is not distinct. Many couples -- including my own parents, who have been married nearly 50 years -- have knock-down-drag-out fights when trying to work on the same computer at the same time for the same purpose.

Back on the battlefield of the Mouse Wars, we really needed to initiate a new plan to make our “unified effort” on the computer a peaceful, loving and enjoyable experience. What plan did we initiate to resolve the Mouse Wars?

One of us had to willingly surrender the mouse (control) to the other person before peace could prevail. Since we were at home, in my wife’s “domain” and area of care, I decided to give up the mouse (while biting a large stick). I even rubbed my wife’s tense shoulders while she found the information, as a gesture of goodwill (yes, I had to look at the ceiling a couple of times). It actually worked! We talked, while she searched -- her way.

If we’d been in my place of work, or in my “domain,” I’d have expected her to withdraw and let me perform the search. Mutual respect. And now that we've recently purchased a second computer, the Mouse Wars erupt even less frequently. I recall learning this same lesson in the Elementary School lunch line: Be kind, considerate and wait your turn. (And let girls go first.)

Don’t let the mouse nibble on your marriage -- you can win this war! But just remember, there is one mouse for one reason: one user. Here’s to successful, “joint-effort” Internet searches!

I was watching the Olympics bobsledding competition the other night and got to wondering, "What exactly are the qualifications for the person/people that sit in the back?"

It looked like the "back seaters" had some awesome calves for the two to four second start, but after that ... what? It appeared (to me, at least) that they just sit in the back, heads tucked, for the entire ride. That the entire race was dependent upon the skill of the driver.

Since I know absolutely nothing about bobsledding, I'm sure I'm wrong. There may, and probably is, much more to the "back of the bobsled" person's job than what I see. But I also got to thinking (because I'm weird that way) about submission.

I think when nonbelievers, and even some believers, hear about biblical passages such as Ephesians 5 or Colossians 3 or 1 Peter 3 where wives are called upon to submit to their husbands they think of my version of bobsledding. The wife is just along for the ride. The husband drives with his head facing forward, not worrying about those in the back as long as they have their heads tucked.

But I've learned after more than a decade of marriage, that submission doesn't really look like that at all. With apologies to those who aren't figure skating fans, I've found submission to be much closer to pairs skating. We're face to face, engaging each other. We're communicating, practicing, perfecting (or, in our case, leaning upon the Lord to perfect us). But there are still definite roles. His is to lead our family. Mine is to support that leadership.

That support may look different in different situations. Sometimes helping. Sometimes advising. Sometimes listening. Sometimes gently challenging. But always affirming that the only way for this dance to work is for us to be intentionally engaging each other and to embrace, rather than fight, our God-given roles. It's not about being in the back seat with no control over where this crazy, out-of-control thing goes. Instead, it's face to face, with (metaphorically) hands clasped and his arm around my waist, mine upon his shoulder.