There’s something so satisfying about weeding the garden. When you start, there’s a problem. When you finish, everything is neat, tidy and pristine. It’s the same with cleaning. Start – dirt and mess. Finish- shiny and smelling good. Painting is a joyous task. Start with ugly, end with glossy. Being able to see the fruit of the labor is such a gift. Progress is evident when beauty reigns. I yearn for the shiny, new, polished, and complete in order to be satisfied.
Instead of pretty and perfect, what I got this week was a floppy, detached, cracked and sad sole. Literally. My tennies, my work tennies, decided to poop out on me. Oh, I’ve known for several weeks that there were spots where the sole was pulling away from the top, but that wasn’t a major issue. I’ve known that they were scuffed and ugly, but each morning I slipped my feet into them, laced them up, and went on my way. Until Friday. On Friday, I was on the ladder, helping Karl lift a piece of galvanized aluminum up to its final resting place on the roof (Morgan, Karl’s strong and strapping helper, needed to be away for a few days and I was elected to help!). As I stepped down, the unthinkable happened. My errant sole got caught on something and nearly the whole darn thing peeled away. Drat. I considered duct taping my shoe together, but honestly, I had to admit we’d gone past that point. With reticence and reluctance, I untied my faithful work shoes and removed them. I threw them in the trash. After a respectable and respectful mourning period (okay, it was about three minutes), I went upstairs to find the only other pair of tennies I currently own. Now I’m wearing my ‘good’ ones to work in. Bummer.
As I went back to work, I had a thought. Those shoes are a measurement of progress. I actually gleaned every bit of usefulness from them. They partnered with me and gave their all. Later in the afternoon, I noticed another evidence of hard work accomplished. Karl’s gloves. Holes in the fingers. Sweat stains. All of a sudden my perspective changed. Instead of seeing nasty, smelly shoes or worn out gloves, now I could appreciate their ugliness and tattered condition as a testimony of their effort and faithfulness.
Hmmm. I’m sure that my aha moment won’t change my love for the shiny clean and glossy new, or take away my goal of seeing progress evidenced in new beauty, but just maybe, when I see the smooth, worn edges on a wooden bench, or the nicks and mars on the dining room table, or maybe even when look in the mirror and see the wrinkles around my eyes, or survey the age spots on my hands, just maybe I can appreciate those as good progress made. And I’m hoping God does, too!
