Spring into Cleaning

Hands full of groceries, my foot clumsily held open the storm door. Cradling the bags on one arm, I hastily pulled the key from my pocket and jammed it into the lock. As the door swung open, my grip loosened and groceries went flying, the savoy scent of onion and vinegar swirling. Kneeling, and scooping up the seasoned chips from the busted bag, I gazed up at the weather-worn oak door. And I looked again. It appeared every bit its age. Knicks and gouges were etched deep in the wood grain like flung sharp pebbles. Layers of orange and green paint were grossly peeling. Exposure to the powerful summer sun had left its finish dull and boring. Even the brass door knocker and letter slot were blotchy and discolored. Ugh. Definitely a sorry sight to a friendly neighbor or postal worker.

But what if...after all those years of nasty decay, there lay underneath something quite amazing? A tribute to its arboreal namesake of a majestic oak.

I pondered this for quite some time.

I decided to take action. Although I had not worked on such a task before, I jotted down the necessary items. List in hand, I dashed off to the home improvement store. Into the carriage went scrapers, paint brushes, drop cloths, paint removal liquid, wood stain, varnish and clean-up solvent. Apprehensive, I surveyed the overloaded carriage hoping I had everything.

Well, not yet. There was one more thing; a gadget I had never used before and, to tell the truth, was a bit scared of. Recalling stories about people who had singed themselves had tingles racing up and down my neck. I didn’t want to become a grilled hotdog. But I knew this item would make the job go a lot faster. I would just need to be very careful. I hunted up one aisle, then another thinking that other "do it your-selfers” had snatched them all up.

Suddenly the carriage screeched to a halt. There it was, all shiny in its plastic shrink wrap - a heat gun. Saliva gushed. I gulped. I had great respect for this soon to be, very efficient work tool.

Now I was ready. Tying an old paisley bandana around my head, I gripped the heat gun. Soon the front steps resembled a master artist platform. Degree by degree the temperature climbed as inch by inch the weathered paint chipped to the ground. Now, fully bathed in hazy sunshine, sweat trickled down my forehead and behind my knees. I was very uncomfortable, but determination propelled me. Hour after hour, day after day. This task encompassed my waking and my sleeping, the taste of solvents on my tongue, every muscle screaming. Yet I soldiered on.

Finally, the day came. The door was finished. I stood back from the steps to admire the transformation. Suddenly my mouth went dry and I felt hollow inside. Thoughts overcame me of becoming a lumberjack; taking up an ax and chopping it down!

I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder.

“Mom! The front door looks incredible …when you told me you were working on it, I couldn’t imagine it would look like this. This old door glistens in the sun, it original golden hues are just beautiful.”

Was she kidding? Turning full circle, I searched my daughter’s face, so full of enthusiasm. Her eyes twinkled with delight. She was telling the truth.

I wasn't convinced.

“What about those awful nicks and scratches I made, the uneven sanding that is visible in the sunlight … and these nasty stain discolorations?”

“But, Mom, don’t you see that those blemishes enhance the character of this old door? The oak is shining through with restored elegance and brilliance. It’s a masterpiece!”

Tying to grasp my daughter’s vision, I turned and stared at the door for a long moment. I imagined this oaken construction as a reflection of myself. Realizing that I was a creation that had become weathered with bumps and bruises. I was in need of improvement and refining so I could glean a heart full of radiance and warmth. Why, all those nicks and pings have made me the person I am … embracing an inner fiber of beauty in the midst of imperfection and flaws.

Many years have gone by. The oak door has aged even more; it is dingy and weather beaten. The strong rising sun has danced and cast its bleached streaks upon it. But fully composed, it maintains a sturdy and steadfast presence—a lovely entrance to our home.

Yet, I gaze upon it and still wonder.

… and that’s how I live it.