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Picking at the bumps
I hate bumps. At least I think I do, because if I find one, I can't let it alone until it is picked smooth.
Once, while chatting on the telephone at my sister-in-law's house, I found a bump under the paint on the door frame to the basement. So, I picked it smooth. Oops. That created an uneven surface of loose paint. Can't have that. All the while chatting away, I proceeded to smooth that loose paint. Not even aware of what I was doing, I chatted and peeled, peeled and chatted, and by the time the conversation ended, I had peeled a square foot of paint right off that door frame. Not a good idea. And no way to set it right again. You can imagine my humiliation when she asked about it, in a roundabout fashion, suspecting my then 3-year-old son, Ben. He would have made a great scapegoat, even though he would have had to have been on tiptoes on a kitchen chair to reach that high, but I took the high road and confessed my misdeed.
It didn't cure me of my obsession with bumps, but I haven't destroyed anyone else's property smoothing out off-limit bumps in the 30 years since that day.
Bumps. They really get under my skin (pun intended, as most puns are). They're in the same class of irritants as the buzzing fly-by whine of a mosquito that has found its way into the bedroom at night, or the grating whine of an overtired cranky child. Just one more piece of straw piled onto this camel's back during the course of the day, just one more burden I shouldn't carry, but can't seem to shake off.
It's not as though a day doesn't bring with it enough burdens without these inconsequential ones adding their weight. Sometimes its a less-than-understanding customer, or a less-than-accomodating clerk at the local gas station. A careless word or a bit of haggling over a fair price for services rendered going a bit too far. A day's wages promised, but withheld without explanation. Perhaps it is blatant opposition, strong words that purposely wound, purposely denigrate. Whatever the cause, the straws, of differing weights, pile up, taking their toll.
Sometimes the burden is deserved - missed deadlines, dropped stories, careless accounting - each resulting in another burden to carry all through the long hard days. Perhaps on this day, I was the one who spoke carelessly. Maybe I'm the one doing the whining. Did I withhold good when it was in my hand to do it? However the burdens come, come they do, day by day, day after day. This world beats on us relentlessly. On you. On me. On every man, woman or child, every day. We are heavy-laden.
One thing is certain. The weight of the burdens is cumulative. Burdens must be dealt with or the weight of one day is added to another and then another and finally, the final straw comes and the camel's back breaks.
The solution for these burdens, the safest place to lay them down, is at the feet of Jesus. Were you wrongfully accused or did you play the accuser's part today? Did you turn the other cheek just enough to improve your aim or did you graciously kneel to take the burden thrust upon you? The solution is simple, though seldom easy, whether we are confessing our own misdeeds or forgiving those of another. If every morning his mercies are new (and I'm counting on it), then every morning our mercies must be new as well. Short accounts. With our Savior, and with our neighbor, no matter how far away they live.
"'In your anger do not sin': Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry, and do not give the devil a foothold." Ephesians 4:26, 27 (NIV)
Things you won't see in heaven:
Broken backs
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