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"Mo-om! The toilet's clogged!"

I dread having to be the handyman when my husband is out of town. I feel as qualified to make household repairs as I do to perform brain surgery. But what's a mother to do when her honey-do hero won't be home until next week?

I turned the potatoes down to a simmer and went to take a look. Hmmm … lovely. My five-year-old son, Zachary, followed me back into the kitchen. "Can you fix it, Mom?"

"I'm going to try," I answered, pulling on my rubber gloves. I'd rather take ten cranky two year olds to get shots than do what I have to do, I thought.

Zachary yelled to his three-year-old sister, "Sarah, Mom's gonna fix the toilet!" She came running like he announced it was time to open Christmas presents.

"Why don't you two go play?" I asked.

"We want to watch," Zachary answered.

What's to watch? I'm going to stick my hand in a toilet.

They ran ahead of me into the bathroom, giggling. They didn't get this excited when I took them to McDonald's on a school night.

I removed enough soppy toilet tissue to make a life-sized buffalo out of papier-mâché. I recited, from memory, my husband's lecture on the evils of using too much toilet paper. I flushed to see if that would take care of it.

Nope.

"Where does Daddy keep the plunger?" I asked, as I tied up the trash bag.

"In the garage," Zachary informed me. "We'll show you." The three of us headed downstairs.

"Mom, have you ever used the plunger?" Sarah asked.

"No, I haven't," I answered. I wished I had a copy of Plunging for Dummies, or a training video, or something.

I tossed the trash bag in the can in the garage while they found my least favorite household gadget. I couldn't believe, in this age of technology, the answer to my plumbing problem was a red rubber suction cup mounted on a sawed-off broom handle.

I plunged gently at first, hoping it was just a little clog. Apparently it wasn't. I plunged harder. Then HARDER. Man! What did he flush … a beach ball?

Finally, I felt some suction and began to throw my full weight into the job. That's when I realized the plunger was sucking on the side of the toilet like a giant algae eater.

"That's not the way Daddy does it," said my son, speaking the words I least wanted to hear.

I said to him what any reasonable mother would say to her child in this situation: "Be quiet."

I remember my husband saying we needed a new plunger. Maybe that was part of the problem. I repositioned and tried again. On my third thrust, the suction cup turned inside out like a cheap umbrella and splashed water onto my feet.

I threw a towel on the floor in front of the toilet and tossed my wet socks into the bathtub. Every sports analogy I'd ever heard having to do with not being a quitter flashed through my mind. I choked up on the plunger and planted my feet, determined to go the distance.

Finally, after countless attempts, my pants were wet from the waist down and I was ready to give up. "I quit, kids. I can't do this," I said, feeling defeated. "You'll just have to use the toilet in Mommy and Daddy's bathroom until Daddy gets home next week." I started wiping up and putting things away.

"Mom, I know what you need to do," Zachary said. "You forgot to pray before you started."

Oh, me of little faith. I'm embarrassed to say I rolled my eyes at his suggestion.

But he was right. Wasn't this one of those prime opportunities to teach my children to depend on God? Didn't I want them to learn nothing is impossible for God? Did I really want to leave the toilet clogged for a whole week?

"Zachary, you're right. Let's pray."

Zachary bowed his head and closed his eyes. "Dear God, please help Mom with the plunger, and help our toilet get unclogged. In Jesus' name, amen."

I'd barely opened my eyes when he thrust the plunger into my hands and said, "Try it now, Mom."

I pumped the plunger five or six times and heard an encouraging gurgle. I plunged again and this time, the water drained completely. "Hey! I think I got it," I announced. I flushed to see what would happen. The kids clapped and cheered as water once again flowed freely down the Allen family toilet.

If any of the neighbors had been peeking in the window just then, they would have thought we'd won the lottery. We were having an impromptu praise and worship session to thank Almighty God for helping me to unclog our toilet, in spite of my incompetence and a worn-out plunger.

Once again, Lord, you showed me nothing is impossible when I call on you. Hey … maybe I could do brain surgery … if I prayed first.

Cora Allen, a freelance writer, lives with her family in Missouri.

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