This week our entire main floor has looked, felt, and smelt like the Gaza strip. We’re freshening up the kitchen, living room, dining area, and entrance (which flows up the stairs into everything but the bedrooms and one bathroom). It’s a pretty major project.
First, yank everything off the walls & grunt the furniture across the floor and mound it into a tarped ziggurat in the middle of the room. Next, slop and spackle all the dings, chips, and grooves the heroic walls have endured over the past decade or so. Sand ’em up. Wipe ’em down. And then let the paint fly. The thicker the better. One coat. Two. Some places three, where the touch-ups still show through.
We’re getting a guy to do all this for us, mind you. But it feels like a big project. A major overhaul, a significant facelift. It’s like botox for my living room. It’s gonna look great.
And God pokes me with the scene in the picture. Something in my gut registers the poke: There is something to be learned here. “Don’t settle for a mere paint job,” or something like that. Don’t whitewash a tomb. Clean the inside of the cup.
What, Lord? What am I trying to cover with a fresh coat of paint when more serious work may be required? Like replacing the drywall, finding mould, and ripping out a stud or two to begin fresh?
It’s this training thing, isn’t it, God? Discipleship. The Great Omission. You keep hammering at this. I must not settle for a new coat of paint. My basic assumptions need an overhaul. I need to see this differently. Open my eyes, Lord Jesus.
Okay, that’s my thing. But is God speaking to you about the paint image? Through the photograph, maybe? Take a moment to listen. What’s God saying?