It is a truth universally acknowledged that an in-progress home project will always make the neighbors wonder what the heck you’re doing with your already-chaotic scrap-metal Millwright Mecca/chicken-haven of a property.
There are streaky lines in the stucco where enormous cracks have been patched, and the once turquoise-green trim has been sanded into ugly patches. If that weren’t enough, there’s a commercial shipping container that looks like a train car in the driveway to temporarily house my dad’s work materials.
My boyfriend can attest that I was happy about none of this for about a week. First world problems, I know. For the 20 years that I’ve lived here, our house has been white, and in my stability-seeking, change-fearing mind, this did not need to change—except since my parents are trying to refinance, it totally did.
The other day when I was whining about how much I hated the new paint color, I asked him if I was being ridiculous. His look, though supportive and gentle, said something along the lines of “you are freaking out over a PAINT COLOR, so yes.” Turns out moving back and forth between military houses where you can’t just paint the walls or change the carpets gives you a healthier perspective on things. Paint and carpets and even houses are just things! They’re temporary. And the sooner I learn to let go of the things I can’t change, the easier my life will be. (And I actually do like the new color now!)
That was lesson one for this month.
Lesson two could be filed under any of the following: 1) Learning to Ask for Help; 2) Learning to Ask for Help When You’re Standing in the Dark Behind the Church and Bleeding; or the ever-practical #3) You Should Have Sucked it Up and Gotten Stitches, You Big Dummy. I urge you to exit this page now if you’re the squeamish type (I’m not) because the cut isn’t worth the trouble telling you about if I can’t show you.
(Seriously. Leave now, or at least squint a little bit as you scroll if blood makes you puke.)
On Wednesday night, one week after a high school youth group student accidentally kicked me full-on in the shin during a game of yoga ball soccer, I cut open my other shin. It was a game similar to a hide and seek scavenger hunt for the adult leaders, and I was NOT going to be found. Except I was found… twice. After being discovered behind a palm tree, I decided enough was enough, tried to jump from a 3’ high ledge in the dark, and landed in a pile of leaves behind the church. Honestly, I would’ve been fine had my leg cleared the ledge. A searing pain shot up my right leg. I hoped it wasn’t broken.
Knowing that I was injured but too stupid to give up my position just yet, I limped down a dirt road and hid behind the church, waiting for the game to end while wondering where the water dripping down my leg was coming from. (I thought it was runoff from that morning’s rain but later learned it was blood.)
***
Asking for help is not my forte. And neither is sitting it out when I know that I’m probably incapable of going on. When I cut my knee open on a loose nail in my grandparent’s rented RV, 5 year-old me opted to keep my leg completely straight for three weeks to avoid getting stitches. Just last week, I hit my head on a brick staircase and, despite my suspicion that I had gotten a mild concussion, drove home anyway. The next day at work, just minutes after discussing my dizziness and light sensitivity with a co-worker, a freestanding whiteboard fell on my head and either gave me a concussion or just made the existing one worse.
I asked Calvin the other day, “What exactly is God trying to teach me with all of these injuries?” I recounted my schedule—how I’ve been getting up at 4:00am recently to prep for work; teaching during the day and working at church in the evening; stressing about silly things like paint colors; and carrying these things day after day like a pack mule. He said he didn’t know, but that it probably had to do with pride.
Ah, yes. That old familiar friend who convinced me that drinking 5 cups of coffee a day my junior year of college was worth getting all As, even though it also meant developing stomach ulcers. Pride tells me that I am capable of controlling the outcome—that working myself to death is somehow worth the pat on the back.
But is it? I’ve been trying to work out whether this is a good exchange rate, and the bandage on my leg is telling me it’s not.
Pride says to strive, but God says to rest (Psalm 46:10).
Pride says perfection is attainable, but God says He’s perfect in my weakness (2 Cor. 12:9).
Pride promises praise but ultimately keeps me unsatisfied, because even when I’m busting my butt making the world’s greatest lesson-plans, I can’t control the level of effort my students put into their work.
So maybe, just maybe…. seeking perfection and control is a sham and God is right:
“I have seen all the works which have been done under the sun, and behold, all is vanity and striving after wind.”
Ecclesiastes 1:14
Striving for perfection and control can be as self-centered and useless as speaking in the tongues of angels without love (1 Cor. 13:1). Plus, I’m of little use to anyone if I’m knocked out or literally unable to walk.
***
Before the trim on the house was painted, all I could see were the course spots where the old paint had been buffed out. I quietly wondered what our neighbors thought—if they thought we’d leave the house in that state. But it doesn’t matter. Those ugly patches are being revealed, and that’s potentially embarrassing.
But the thing is, they’re being revealed.
Now the new paint will stick—and though that process isn’t very attractive, it’ll result in something fresh and beautiful and worthwhile and new.
Kayley Chartier 