It's Hard to Admit You Need a Carpenter

When the bathroom ceiling paint peeled after the third scraping and repainting, we still thought we could get by. When a new fan refused to move enough steam to prevent condensation, we still hoped we could manage with only minor changes. Even when the new floor suffered water damage, we told ourselves that future care in mopping would save what was left. We ignored the encroaching mold that began to domineer the grout.

But finally, tiles fell off the wall. First one or two, then whole rows. Chunks of grout, then blocks of plaster fell into the tub with each shower. Every time I cleaned the walls, more tile loosened and dropped.

We couldn't deceive ourselves any longer: The bathroom had to go. Whole wall interiors would be smashed away, flooring ripped up, tub and vanity torn out.

I was afraid the kids would get nervous, as walls came down and familiar fixtures were yanked away, but to my surprise, they took it all very well. They regretted nothing. They asked how the new tub would look. They eagerly inquired about new features: shower doors with brass trim, instead of the always-ripping shower curtain; tub with a seat; medicine cabinet with a light.

The kids ignored the constant pounding on the walls, but it bothered me. I knew a new bathroom would emerge from all the sawing, drilling and hammering. But the throb of the hammer never left me easy.

And though the kids didn't mind the old bathroom being destroyed. I couldn't help looking back longingly when the walls were gutted, and bald light bulbs illuminated a dark room swirling with plaster dust.

The pounding, the pounding, the pounding. . .

On Good Friday there was pounding.

The carpenter of the universe was Himself stretched out like Sheetrock. This man knew nails, and by Easter he knew them better than ever. And even now He knows the pain of nails, the point of nails, the constructive, permanent purpose of nails.

He allows the pounding so that I can be remodeled, complete with new fixtures.

I've gotten moldy. Green black glop slimes its way over my disposition. I snap when I should smile. I growl when I should shrug. My caulk is brittle and deteriorating. Caustic words crumble and fall from my mouth. I cannot pack or plaster those words back in again, no matter how much I would like to.

Rust shrouds my faucets, ugly, corrosive attitudes eating through metal and mind.

Steamy pride has swelled my 2-by-4s. I take offense at small things, and those around me buckle and warp.

But I don't relish being stripped bare, insulation pulled off, with only damp, dark boards revealed. And I don't like the pounding.

That Carpenter is doing all the work and taking all the pain, and I don't like the pounding?

I've managed without help all this time. Maybe I really don't need remodeling. I'll hold up just as I am for another decade or two. Maybe when the ceiling collapses I'll admit I need a carpenter, but not one minute before then.

But more tile clatters into the tub - and I know.

It's embarrassing to admit you need a carpenter, and to let the outside world see your mold. But it was probably embarrassing to be a carpenter hung up as a work of carpentry in front of everyone, too. Not to mention agonizing. Giving his life for his friends.

The kids have it right. I need to envision the new remodel, the shiny fixtures and gleaming surfaces.

We are made to live forever. Our carpenter uses quality material, designed to hold up for eternity. If we keep our eyes on the eternal design, the executive blueprint, we won't be bothered by the pounding. We'll be grateful for it.

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