I have picked at this hangnail on my pointer finger of my good hand for the past day or so now. It aches when I touch it, the spot tender from my trying to bite at it with my teeth. It showed up yesterday after I spent my day doing hard labor next to a cherished friend. We ripped carpet and shower doors and heavy drapery out of my new home. We dripped sweat immediately, this being July and South Carolina and all. The labor felt good. Bone weary good. The hangnail proved to be a minor distraction. Again, just something to chew on while I thought of other things.
Today, I went back to the house again on my own. Yesterday, as we ripped out carpet and exposed old floor, peeling away layers of living, Cindy warned me to leave that last layer of linoleum in the kitchen well enough alone. Accept it as imperfect and put a rug over the small raw spot in front of the stove. Peeling it up would prove tedious and sticky, being that it is glued down. Glued to raw hardwood. And just like that hangnail, I picked up that small little corner piece of unglued linoleum. Picked just a bit. Over. And over again. Until I found underneath a big, monstrous, canvas of exposed raw wood and patches of old floor. It looks to the passerby to be a disaster in progress. But I just had to peel away that last old layer. Had to. Expose.
Makes me think of our sin. Hangnails to pick at. To rip up. To expose. Leaves us raw and naked and full of possibility in our restoration.
Filling up that dumpster sure feels good. Gotta tell you, it's worth the cost we're paying to have it hauled away.