From Soap Suds to Show Booths: A Week in the Life

This was the kind of week that left soap on my sleeve. In our little soap kitchen, the air buzzed with energy as we measured and mixed, then mixed some more, trying to stay ahead of the clock. The wholesale show loomed large, and every batch counted.

My team poured themselves into the work. Early mornings blurred into long afternoons, sleeves rolled up and spirits high. I watched with deep appreciation as they stirred, poured, and packed with care, each hour logged with determination. Our little trailer slowly filled to the brim with soaps, cleaners, and everything in between. Each box stacked was a testament not only to our effort, but to our hope.

The problem was that the whole week felt like that recurring dream so many of us have, where you’re trying to leave for something important, but you just can’t quite get out the door. Mine always takes place on a school morning: I’m scrambling to get my boys ready, the bus is idling outside, the lunches aren’t packed, and one of them can’t find his socks. It's the same loop every time, even though my boys haven’t been in school for eight years.

This week was much too similar: racing against the clock, almost out the door, but not quite. There was always one more batch to pour, one more label to affix, one more box to tape. Just when I thought we were nearing the goal, someone said, “We’re short on labels!” or “Do we have any more of the Eco Bright boxes?” The persistent pace kept marching just a step ahead of us.

Somehow, the day came. We zipped off to Mt. Hope Event Center, running on adrenaline and anticipation to set up our booth. There’s something magical about seeing it all come together, all the hard work paying off—the rows of soaps lined up, labels glinting under the event lights, signs hung just right. We exhaled, finally ready.

Friday, the second day of the show, was the hardest by far. I woke with a pounding headache, the weight of a hundred tiny tasks still on my mind. Things were going to be tight. I swallowed my migraine meds, then Lukas and I hopped on our bikes and pedaled the twelve miles to the event center. The cool morning air, the rhythmic hum of our wheels on pavement, and the rare pause in the otherwise breakneck week soothing me.

We grabbed breakfast from the cafeteria, chatted with our friends, and laughed at some shared stories. Then we headed back to the booth and got back to work. Margaret and I answered questions and took the orders, then our boys helped us prepare the orders for our customers. There was a lot of stacking, counting, and rearranging, so we were super grateful for their help.

We kept going until lunchtime. Then came teardown—repacking, folding tablecloths, dismantling the booth piece by piece, and reloading our trailer. The boys begged for a shared lunch, and honestly, they’d earned it. It was raining, and biking home through the rain looked daunting, so Margaret and I looked at each other and decided we’d make it work.

We found a small table near the corner of the room to share the meal. We talked about the show, which products customers gravitated toward, and what we’d change for next time. The boys laughed over inside jokes, grateful not just for the food but the togetherness. I smiled as I watched them, my heart warming at their obvious friendship.

Lukas and I biked home in the rain, batteries turned up and legs pumping as raindrops chased our urgency. We were part of the team hosting our church picnic that evening, and there was still work to do. Finally home, I checked my potatoes in the oven, helped Grace get ready, and gathered all the supplies. At the last moment, I slipped on the nearest shoes I could find, and dashed downstairs to grab the ice cream spoons.

We arrived at the event center a bit late, and supper was delayed by about fifteen minutes. But the food was warm, and our fellow hosts welcomed us without fuss. Kindness has a way of smoothing frayed edges.

It wasn’t until the bustle faded and I finally let myself breathe that I happened to glance down. And there, with all the subtlety of a punchline, Lukas’ old, ugly, camo Crocs grinned up at me. I stared at my feet in disbelief. My cheeks reddened, but I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it; they summed up the entire week: worn out, faded, and just barely making it. 

Because if this week had a theme, it was the pace: constant, unrelenting, and way too familiar. Like my old dream, where the socks were missing and the bus driver was impatient. Only this time, instead of socks, I had soap labels. Instead of the bus, I had a wholesale event and a church supper.

Still, we made it. Not perfectly and not dry, but we managed. And even though a pair of battered Crocs tagged along for the ride and lived to tell the tale, we still did okay. I am human, and a bit of camo-colored humility won’t hurt me. But I am praying hard for a peaceful next week.