December 31, 2020
As I brushed my teeth, I noticed the white paint stains at the bottom of my pajama shirt. And to think I was actually wearing a matching set of PJs, not my ordinary old t-shirt and comfy, sometimes holey pants. Even my “nicest” pajamas had succumbed to random paint smears that seem to find a way on lots of my clothes. Just the day before, I had noticed red paint on my hoodie sleeves. But living in a house that seems to have never-ending projects and being married to a man who runs a pallet sign side business lends itself to getting paint on your clothes. Even your good pjs. Occasionally my fingers bear the markings of Early American or Espresso, two of our most used wood stains.
I’m marked, painted, stained. Whatever you want to call it.
But these are things that can be remedied with a good scrubbing or a change of clothes. As I’m thinking back over this past year, the infamous 2020, it’s quite obvious to me and the rest of the planet that some markings aren’t as superficial and aren’t going away with a run through the wash cycle. More than paint smears, they are scars.
My 14 year old gained a huge scar early in the summer. He took a jump in a river and learned that in the game of rock versus knee, the rock wins. After plenty of blood, some tears, and nine staples, we were sent home from urgent care with a bandage and knee immobilizer to hold him together. Our family counted down the weeks and days leading up to the staples being removed and life returning to normal for him. None of us were accustomed to watching him sit for long.
So the day came for the staples to come out. In my mind and probably his, that meant an immediate return to action. I would soon be able to watch him practice his soccer shots in the backyard.
Everyone had assured him that removing the staples would be a walk in the park. Easy, breezy. Should have been. Could have been if several of the staples had not gotten stuck. But they were. And it was awful. Had I not been wearing a mask as I watched, I’m quite certain that I would have chewed off every one of my fingernails as I observed the pain in his eyes and the frustration in the doctor’s. I mentally scooped him up and left the place more than once during the process. But we had no choice. The staples had to be removed. When they finally were, we collected our shattered nerves from the floor, extra bandages, my purse and left.
And the magic moment of him skipping along or jogging to the van did not happen. While the wound had pretty much healed, his body had to adjust and learn to move again. That knee had been as straight as a stick for weeks and couldn’t remember how to bend and function like it always had. He walked around like a wooden-legged pirate, wounded in battle. It was a process. And the movement started with the tiniest of bends. And slowly built. He got there. He got to the point where he could run and kick and return to the soccer field.
He’s left with a good story and a pretty good sized-scar.
I’m assuming that 2020 has left most of us with tales to tell. Tales of hand sanitizer and masks. Memories of quarantines and virtual learning. Comedies like mommy trying to help with 4th grade math and kids driving their parents absolutely crazy. Good times too. Memories made and time well spent.
But you can’t hardly see the picture of this past year without the glaring scars. Oh they’re different lengths and depths, but they’re there. The loneliness that cut some of us to the core. The gut-wrenching fears of finances and viruses that plagued so many. The schedules and plans and dreams ripped up and replaced with boredom and isolation. Frustration rocked us and helplessness tried to drown us. Sickness and death swooped in and wounded in unimaginable ways.
So here we stand facing another year desperately wanting to leave the last one far in the past. Maybe we’re on one leg, unable to put our weight and the heaviness of 2020 all down at once. Looking around,we see each other. Most of us changed and are not as bright-eyed as our hopeful selves of New Year’s pasts. Some of us are longing to see ones that are no longer here. We’re changed. We’re scarred. Maybe we’re not ready to run and jump, but we’re ready to start bending our stiff knees to head towards hope and away from the battle.
Getting on our knees sounds like the best first step. Perhaps that’s where you’ve spent this past year anyway. Some of us know that prayer is what got us to this final day of 2020. That will be a highlight of this treacherous year: understanding the sustaining power of prayer and coming to terms with the fact that when all else is falling apart around us, the God who created us, sustains us. We can rest in Him.
Ah, rest and peace at the end of this year sounds delightful and inviting because it’s quite the opposite of what so many of us have experienced. Maybe you have physically rested but your emotions and thoughts never took a break. They worked overtime. Perhaps you’re one of the treasured people who have taken care of others and just the thought of putting your feet up for a second sounds like paradise. Either way, we all need some rest.
Rest in Him for what’s ahead. Surely the Lord has some great things ahead for us. We may have to start with some small bends of our knees and work up to simply putting one foot in front of the other. Yes, our clothes may be stained from the work and our scars will remain, but God heals. He redeems. Let’s crawl, limp, walk, run…however we need to get there…into a hopeful 2021.
“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before Him, He endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider Him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.” Hebrews 12: 1-3