She left me a note on the kitchen table.

“Turn the oven on to 385 degrees at eleven o’clock.  I really want it at 375, but that should get it there.  Check the inside thermometer before you put the meatloaf in and adjust accordingly.  Thanks!  Love you!”

I know how to follow directions.  The problem is, when I checked the inside thermometer fifteen minutes after starting it, the temperature was 425 degrees!  The setting said 385—I was aiming for 375—but I got 425 instead.

There were no instructions for this!

I turned the oven setting down to 325.  In a few more minutes I checked the thermometer again.  It said 350.

Eventually, the meatloaf was cooked, but not without 2 smoke detectors going off, first one then the other filling the air with its obnoxious screeching.

She wondered if it was time to buy a new stove.  That’s not the way I do things.

I wonder sometimes if she understands me.

I like new things.  I do.  It’s just that I take it as a personal affront if an appliance won’t fulfill its unspoken promise to function until it’s earned its keep.  A stove should last twenty years, not six.  That’s my expectation, anyway.

I did some research, finding that we merely needed to replace the temperature sensor in the oven.  It was a fifteen-dollar part.

I ordered the part.

After it arrived yesterday, knowing I’d have to get to the back of the oven compartment, I began the repair by removing the door of the oven.  Carrying the door into the living room I laid it carefully on the sofa, making an offhand comment about the greasy residue on the front glass.

By the time I made it back to the kitchen, she was laying old towels over the table there, asking me to bring the door back in so she could clean it.

The entire time I worked at replacing the sensor, she cleaned.

Eventually, I needed to slide the stove itself away from the wall to access the wiring under the back panel.  As I moved the heavy beast, I noticed the debris around the edges of the flooring where the stove had been sitting.  I made the mistake of mentioning it to the Lovely Lady, as she was finishing up on the oven door.

I swept the floor with a broom, thinking it would be good enough.  I even picked up the meat fork that had dropped down there a few years ago.

Finishing up the wiring connection (and groaning loudly about the discomfort of squatting there for too long), I closed up the panel on the back.   Coming back around to the front, I leaned back into the oven compartment to tighten up the screws that held the part fast to the back wall inside.

When I looked up again, the Lovely Lady was nowhere to be found.  I was about to shove the stove back into its space when I realized she was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor I had just swept.

I’m not sure I always understand her.

“No one is ever going to see that.  Why are you wasting your time and effort?”

Even as I said the words, I remembered the ladies.  Ladies in homes (and sometimes a man) where I had been called to move pianos in years past.  For various reasons—perhaps they were moving, or redecoration required a temporary relocation, or I was buying the piano to resell—I often moved pianos for folks over the forty years I was in the music business.

Without fail, when my helpers and I moved the ultra-heavy pieces of furniture away from the wall, the lady of the house would gasp in embarrassment.  When something sits in one place for years, dirt and debris tend to build up under and around it.

“No one expects you to clean under your piano,” I would always say, hoping to lessen their shame.  It never helped.

Often, they would still be swiping at the back of the piano with a broom as we moved it out the doorway.

All that went through my mind in a flash after the words left my mouth. I shut up; then I went and sat down for a few moments to give her time to finish.

The oven works.  For now.  The day is coming when it won’t and we’ll pull it out of the little cubicle it’s sitting in to repair it again.  Maybe, we’ll have to replace it the next time.

But for now, it works.  And, it’s clean inside and out.  And underneath it.

It’s clean.

Despite my nonchalance—my carelessness—it’s clean.

Why am I like that?  Why do I think it doesn’t matter what kind of crud is there—out of sight?  If it looks good, it must be good.

And yet, I hear the voice of The Teacher as he calls the religious leaders of His generation “whitewashed tombs”. (Matthew 23:27)

Clean and beautiful to the eyes of those passing by, but hidden inside, the stink and filth of death.  Or maybe, like the kitchen, sparking clean to the eye, but with debris and crud—and a meat fork or two—lurking in the shadows.

He promises to make us clean.  All clean.  Inside and out.

But we can’t shove the stove back into place before it’s clean under there.

I’ve got to make a repair to the washing machine today, too.

I wonder what we’ll find under there.

 

“I don’t mind dying; I’d gladly do that.  But, not right now.  I need to clean the house first.”
(Astrid Lindgren)

Don’t you realize that those who do wrong will not inherit the Kingdom of God? Don’t fool yourselves. . .Some of you were once like that. But you were cleansed; you were made holy; you were made right with God by calling on the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God.
(1 Corinthians 6: 9, 11 — NLT)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.