Hurrying to race out the door to work, I rummaged in my sock drawer for a matching pair of black socks. Glancing at the clock, I promised myself—again—that I would dump the drawer, sort through it, toss away the widows and straighten up the surviving pairs.
Straightening the sock drawer is a promise I make to myself once or twice a month. And somehow, fifteen minutes for my socks never seem to materialize. Saturday rolls around, and I’d rather bake blueberry muffins. Or rub the dogs’ bellies, delighting in their contented sighs. Or talk to my sister on the phone.
And so on some mornings the sock search becomes desperate. On some mornings, I give up and wear sandals.
The truth is I don’t really want to dig through my sock drawer.
I have some genuine bona fide treasures in my sock drawer. I have red socks with snowmen knitted into the fabric, a gift from my mother. She loved silly socks for the holidays and often gave them to my sister and me. Mom’s gone now; there won’t be any new pairs of silly socks. But I wear the ones she gave me only once or twice a year and I hope they’ll last.
I’ll be at my in-laws’ home for the famous Lagrand Family Christmas Party, always the Saturday before Christmas. My mother-in-law will have set out her Christmas village and the tree will stand in the corner of the living room. The children will eye the gifts under the tree. My sister-in-law will have prepared a fabulous dessert. The house will smell of casseroles and ham and happiness.
Sipping a glass of eggnog, I’ll look down at snowmen on my ankles, I’ll remember Mom, and I’ll smile, or cry. Or both.
Other prizes live there, too. The drawer holds pink cashmere-blend socks that my grandson Cadence gave me for Christmas the year he was two. His mommy swears he chose them himself, and I believe her. And I have socks that Jesus gave me. But that’s a long story.
I enjoy these riches in my sock drawer. They’re not the problem. It’s all the crud that’s accumulated in there, too. I bet at least two pair of pantyhose are infested with snags and runs. A pair of mocha-colored trouser socks gave up on elasticity, drooping into uselessness. The Snoopy Christmas socks, another gift from Mom, sprouted a little hole right where my left pinky toenail hits, but I can’t quite bear to give them up. And I’ll bet at least seven mateless socks huddle in the drawer’s deepest recesses.
See, to clean out my sock drawer, I have to deal with the crud. As it is, I can just close the drawer and everything appears good and orderly. Sifting through the drawer means looking the junk in the eye, admitting it’s worthless, and tossing it out. And if I could just do that once, then my drawer would hold only useful, or even treasured, socks.
Life would be easier if I’d clear out the trash. But it’s easier to close the drawer.
Or at least it seems easier, at the moment. But then, the next time I need socks, I’m sifting through all the dregs again. It takes time and energy.
If it were just my sock drawer, it wouldn’t be so bad.
But the thing is, I do the same thing with my heart. I’ve got junk in there, all tangled up with my treasures just as my snagged pantyhose wrap themselves around my snowman socks. Things that hurt me, wrongs I committed, are lodged in there right alongside my memories of the first kiss I shared with my husband and my daughter’s first smile. And sometimes, when I’m sifting through my heart looking for a blessed memory, I get sidetracked by all the junk that’s piled up.
What I need to do is clean out my heart. Because it’s not easier to just close my heart. My heart feels crowded and squeezed when I slam it shut. Every time I try, it springs open again. And all the junk sits there, tarnishing my treasures. I need to pile up all the garbage and say, “God, here it is. I’m sorry for all this crud. I can’t get rid of it. Will you please haul it out of here?”
And then maybe I can tackle my sock drawer.
Sheila Seiler Lagrand is a friend and a blogger. She blogs at Godspotting. I am so grateful for Sheila's post here today, during this Thanksgiving week.
Straightening the sock drawer is a promise I make to myself once or twice a month. And somehow, fifteen minutes for my socks never seem to materialize. Saturday rolls around, and I’d rather bake blueberry muffins. Or rub the dogs’ bellies, delighting in their contented sighs. Or talk to my sister on the phone.
And so on some mornings the sock search becomes desperate. On some mornings, I give up and wear sandals.
The truth is I don’t really want to dig through my sock drawer.
I have some genuine bona fide treasures in my sock drawer. I have red socks with snowmen knitted into the fabric, a gift from my mother. She loved silly socks for the holidays and often gave them to my sister and me. Mom’s gone now; there won’t be any new pairs of silly socks. But I wear the ones she gave me only once or twice a year and I hope they’ll last.
I’ll be at my in-laws’ home for the famous Lagrand Family Christmas Party, always the Saturday before Christmas. My mother-in-law will have set out her Christmas village and the tree will stand in the corner of the living room. The children will eye the gifts under the tree. My sister-in-law will have prepared a fabulous dessert. The house will smell of casseroles and ham and happiness.
Sipping a glass of eggnog, I’ll look down at snowmen on my ankles, I’ll remember Mom, and I’ll smile, or cry. Or both.
Other prizes live there, too. The drawer holds pink cashmere-blend socks that my grandson Cadence gave me for Christmas the year he was two. His mommy swears he chose them himself, and I believe her. And I have socks that Jesus gave me. But that’s a long story.
I enjoy these riches in my sock drawer. They’re not the problem. It’s all the crud that’s accumulated in there, too. I bet at least two pair of pantyhose are infested with snags and runs. A pair of mocha-colored trouser socks gave up on elasticity, drooping into uselessness. The Snoopy Christmas socks, another gift from Mom, sprouted a little hole right where my left pinky toenail hits, but I can’t quite bear to give them up. And I’ll bet at least seven mateless socks huddle in the drawer’s deepest recesses.
See, to clean out my sock drawer, I have to deal with the crud. As it is, I can just close the drawer and everything appears good and orderly. Sifting through the drawer means looking the junk in the eye, admitting it’s worthless, and tossing it out. And if I could just do that once, then my drawer would hold only useful, or even treasured, socks.
Life would be easier if I’d clear out the trash. But it’s easier to close the drawer.
Or at least it seems easier, at the moment. But then, the next time I need socks, I’m sifting through all the dregs again. It takes time and energy.
If it were just my sock drawer, it wouldn’t be so bad.
But the thing is, I do the same thing with my heart. I’ve got junk in there, all tangled up with my treasures just as my snagged pantyhose wrap themselves around my snowman socks. Things that hurt me, wrongs I committed, are lodged in there right alongside my memories of the first kiss I shared with my husband and my daughter’s first smile. And sometimes, when I’m sifting through my heart looking for a blessed memory, I get sidetracked by all the junk that’s piled up.
What I need to do is clean out my heart. Because it’s not easier to just close my heart. My heart feels crowded and squeezed when I slam it shut. Every time I try, it springs open again. And all the junk sits there, tarnishing my treasures. I need to pile up all the garbage and say, “God, here it is. I’m sorry for all this crud. I can’t get rid of it. Will you please haul it out of here?”
And then maybe I can tackle my sock drawer.
If we confess our sins, He is faithful and righteous to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.
1 John 1:9 (NASB)
Sheila Seiler Lagrand is a friend and a blogger. She blogs at Godspotting. I am so grateful for Sheila's post here today, during this Thanksgiving week.
0 comments:
Post a Comment