I am upstairs in my office with the door shut. If Leslie were to call me from downstairs I would never hear her. Not so the floor sanding machine grinding away at the finish of our dining room floor. The living room is finished, but you would never know it because all of our downstairs furniture is residing comfortably in that space. The foyer and staircase anxiously await their time under the sandpaper, or whatever they use to scrape decades of stain and varnish away.
Not to be overtly theological - but it is my job sort of - seeing the floors stripped bare of their colorful but faded and scratched pretentiousness, makes me think that it isn't such a bad idea to clean up the accumulated worry, anxiety, sin, and spiritual scars and scratches on a periodic basis. We call it confession or reconciliation in my denomination, but however you name it, we all need, as bad "B" movies will tell you, to come clean. A teenager whose confession I heard later told a whole room of folks that her first confession made her feel clean and new. And she hadn't lived all that long. Think about the real benefits for those of us who have layered ourselves with coat after coat of cynicism and world weariness. Might do us a world of good.
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