The Right Tools
And God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work.
-- II Corinthians, 9:8
The first day we had keys to our new home in El Paso, I insisted upon beginning that very day the long process of renovation that lies before us. Every moment of every day must count if we are to be ready to receive our first houseguests this fall, I rationalized.
I left our comfortable temporary quarters to find myself in a kaleidescope of shag carpeting, bounded by unknown layers of wallpaper, clouded by dusty, dysfunctional chandeliers and ceiling fans. I pondered where to begin. I'd worn my rattiest clothes, I felt robust and eager, but where were the tools I needed? A carpet knife, a crowbar, a hammer-all these and other tools we'd schlepped from Dallas and stored temporarily in my generous brother-in-law's garage; but alas, he was at work 45 miles away and I had no access to our things.
I turned to the most offensive offender, the carpet. Like most monsters, it was thick, strong, and ugly. Given its style and condition, I predicted it had been on these floors for at least 30 years, possibly 40. It was probably weak, I surmised, under the surface and would succumb to my tugging with little effort.
So I knelt down in a corner of the living room, resplendent in lavender faux fur, and yanked. The relentless fibers refused yield; they tossed me backward and I rolled halfway across the room, rendering me more than sufficiently mad. I tackled another corner; same result. I huffed for a minute before deciding to move on. I need my carpet knife! Any knife!
The olive-green plush pile of the hallway taunted my anger. I started where the seam of the hallway carpet met that of the master-bedroom carpet (yet another shade of green, but I digress). I located what appeared to be the weakest corner, squatted into position like an aggressive quarterback on a Friday night, and BAM! My head hit the opposite wall as the recalcitrant rug thwarted me yet again. "Where are my tools when I need them most?" I whined internally.
Then I saw it: a bedroom covered wall-to-wall with the longest, thickest shag in captivity, a shade of red so bright I needed my Ray Bans. I bounded up and entered this room like a brazen warrior. This would be my first and most important conquest. With a fresh vengeance, I leaned down toward a corner, grabbed a fistful of the red nap, and up it came! I wrestled the crimson mess into a heap in the middle of the room, and then by its tail like the proverbial woolly mammoth, dragged it out onto the patio. Victory was mine! I stood atop the heap and pounded by chest before I moved on to the next room, the next, and the next.
Late in the afternoon, with the house stripped and the conquered carpet piled half as high as the roof, I sat on the naked subfloor of the master bedroom and looked down at my gloved hands. Thank God I'd had the forethought to pack a pair of gloves! Gloves. Those were tools. I took them off and examined them, appreciating how they'd served me on this day of hard labor. Then I looked at my bare hands. They were reddened and bruised and sore from the work, but stronger for it. Hands. Those were tools, too. Thank God for them, I thought. Then I looked at my scratched-up arms and legs, a bit worse for the wear and yet stronger and more vital, refined by the work I'd done.
As I considered all this, gazing at the highest point of the Franklin Mountains outside the picture window of what will be a sanctuary for David and me, I realized that I had come to this house with all the tools I needed. I had my able hands, my strong arms, my legs, my back, and even the simple luxury of a pair of work gloves. Less obviously and no less important, I had my heart. I had my determination. I had my stamina, my perseverance, my will. Above all, I had my God-the designer of my tools, the engineer of my work, the One who brought me here in the first place.
And the next day, when I was able to get hold of my tangible tools, they felt, well, like manna from Heaven.
Van English, Contributor |
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