Painting and Perspective

There's nothing like 93 degree weather, splinters in your knees, and the smell of oil-based stain to give you a little perspective.

The Man of the House left us with instructions to please stain the deck. I immediately nominated Oldest Son and Middle Son to help out. Oooh, it is good to have a homegrown labor force.

Oldest Son does not complain. He plunges in to the work like a mule resigned to the plow and gets going. I heard him once mutter, "Could this be any more uncomfortable?" as he balanced on one knee, a heel, and the palm of his right hand while painting with his left. But the rest was head down, nose to the grindstone. Hard worker.

(wait, I just complimented you for working . . . were you really just listening to music?)

Middle Son does complain . . . and loudly. He questioned everything. Why we hadn't hired someone for this horrific job, why we hadn't rented a sprayer, why we chose an oil-base over a latex base, why having a deck was preferable over exiting the back door and jumping into open air. This probably means he will be a brilliant problem solver in the future, but for today it just meant I had to answer too many questions and justify too many decisions.

My blood started to boil . . . right along with the mercury in the outdoor thermometer. My mind went on a little tirade about ungrateful, selfish children.

However, when it was all over my complainer's section was well done and thorough . . . followed instructions to the letter . . . stain beautifully applied. Job well executed.

On the other hand, I had to call my cheerful worker back to get the stain down in between the cracks. I had given very specific instructions about that. The instructions appeared to have been completely ignored (maybe he hadn't heard me over his i-pod!!).

My blood started to boil . . . right along with the mercury in the outdoor thermometer. My mind went on a little tirade about ungrateful, selfish children. (Wait, this is starting to sound familiar.)

However, when I called my cheerful worker back and showed him his error, he responded beautifully. "Sure, Mom." He got to work in the, by now, blazing afternoon sun. Not a complaint. Redid his work. Got it right this time.

Okay, I'm getting it. It's living with imperfection again. Seeing my kids' strengths. Appreciating them. Seeing my kids' weaknesses. Accepting them, giving grace, watching God grow and change them, knowing none of us will ever be perfect this side of Heaven. Letting the grumbling roll off my back and loving the job well done. Patiently accepting slivers of board left unstained and loving the heart that is willing to work.

No, there's nothing like 93 degree weather, splinters in your knees, and the smell of oil-based stain to give you a little perspective on this business of mothering . . . of loving . . . of living with imperfection.

(p.s. Don't forget to leave a comment on the giveaway if you'd like to be entered!! Ends at midnight Friday.)