Holes

The in-go in my prayer window is lined with knotty pine. When we redesigned the room several years ago, it was my job to putty the nail holes, sand them down and varnish. Or at least, it must have been my job to do the bottom two or three rows of holes, because those are the ones which didn’t get sanded down enough. The putty smeared and was then varnished over, revealing not just where the nail holes were, but where we tried to cover them up. The ones at eye height are nearly invisible: Don’s attention to detail, his perfectionist instincts, persuade me that he did those ones.

Every morning I am reminded of my imperfections when I see the messiness of the smears. The only way to get rid of them would be to sand it all back to the bare wood and start again.

I try to hide the holes in my character. I plug them with activities and smear the plugs with more activities or good-sounding words. Time, like a varnish, has sealed them in and as I come before God and ask him to change me, he has to get out the sandpaper. It takes time. It hurts. Only God, the real Perfectionist, knows when he has got out all the phoney filler. Only he can fill the revealed holes with his presence. Only he can heal the hurts. Only he can remove the pain.

All I can do is be willing, willing for him to work on me, willing to trust him absolutely. To wait. To be still and know that He is God.

This pandemic can reveal holes in us, holes which only God can heal. We all agree it is painful. But as we trust and wait, he can make something beautiful out of what was stained and spoiled. Today I will stop making excuses, be still and know.