Last week Gypsy Mama challenged fellow bloggers to spend just five minutes writing and see what happened. SCARY. I didn't bite.
But yesterday, as I worked on the farm with plenty of time to ponder the frustrating consequences of my perfectionism, I decided I was going to make myself do it. Like it or not. Because it was good for me.
We are standing in the field, paintbrushes in hand, dripping white on the brown grass. The brooder stands whitish grey, black in spots from the fire last winter.
Money and time prevent a brand new build, so we do what we can. I have drilled and nailed and screwed the burnt away parts closed, and now 75 balls of yellow fluff await their new home.
We swish the wet brushes across the gray surface, shining white streaks cleaning wood.
It looks so pretty, I think. How easy this, to make it look fresh and new, with just a little paint outside.
Yet inside is still black, still burned.
My heart drops. How like this our world is. How we try to wipe away the pain and the hurts and the bad by making the outs look pretty. We whiten up the darkness within.
Yet waiting, there is eaten away wood, black, crumbling inside.
We didn't have time to make things right the way right should be... build from scratch start over make it new.
But my God, my Jesus, He is the carpenter. That's his business. No paint for Him. No.
Tears down, builds up, starts fresh. Good from the inside out.
He makes all things new.