“You’ll never see it from the back of a galloping horse.”

No, it’s not one of the sayings I learned from the red-headed lady who raised me—she of the thousand-and-one adages.  This one, I first heard from that other red-headed woman, the Lovely Lady, who lives at my house still today.

I understand the ladies with whom she does handwork (needlework, knitting, cross stitching, and the like) say it frequently when a project doesn’t turn out as perfectly as they’d like.

The words were spoken the other day as we finished up a job we’d agreed to help with at a relative’s house.  We’d cut out the pieces we needed, drilled them, and driven an adequate number of screws to hold each one in place for the foreseeable future.  Our relative, a recent widow, was happy with the work while admitting it wasn’t perfect.

“But,” she said, “You’ll never see it from the back of a galloping horse.”

We all went out to eat a bite of supper before heading back home, the location of the restaurant requiring that we drive back by her house later.  As we came up the hill toward the house, I couldn’t help remarking that this drive-by was remarkably like riding by on the back of that galloping horse.

We didn’t notice anything amiss as we sailed past.

Success.

Then, I sat in my chair and moped all evening.  The Lovely Lady sat nearby, crocheting a lovely afghan, and looking over her glasses at me thoughtfully.  She rarely misses noticing a good mope, that one.

I finally said it.

“It’s not good enough.”

Knowing exactly what I was thinking about, she immediately assured me that I had nothing to criticize myself for.  Because that was what I had been doing.  Not intentionally, but the result was the same.  I was certain I hadn’t done enough.

Thinking she needed some clarification, I replied.

“But, it’s his house.”

There may or may not have been tears in my eyes as I said it.  There are as I write this.

Grief is like that.  One believes that time has done its work and the memories have become beneficent and pleasant, instead of painful.  Then after an afternoon of working in the sun, here is sadness showing its unwelcome countenance once more.  The pain is more than only the sore muscles I had anticipated.

Somehow, I feel I owe him more than just “good enough.”  His carpentry and finish work was always remarkable—his work ethic, ever a pursuit of excellence.  And he achieved it, again and again.

But, she is right.  Those were his gifts.  Comparisons are not helpful.

Mr. Shakespeare even suggested that comparisons are odorous.  That was a century and a half after the writer, John Lydgate, said they were “odyous”.  The words don’t mean quite the same thing.  But, the result is inevitable.  They stink.

It stinks for us to compare ourselves against others.

The Apostle Paul gave us the standard (which we ignore, it seems, time after time).

“Whatever work you do, do it with all your heart. Do it for the Lord and not for men.” (Colossians 3:23, NLV)

The folks in the Arts and Crafts movement in the twentieth century had a goal to do things better.  Gustav Stickley, one of its major influences, stamped a phrase on all his pieces to remind folks of that.

“Als Ik Kan,” was what they said.  The Flemish words for “all I can.”  The words communicated that the maker had done the very best he/she could do.

The Lovely Lady reminded me on that recent day that we had done the best we were capable of.

And, it’s enough.

We walk in the light our Creator has given us in which to walk.

We reflect that light to the world around us.

Some of us will shine with a brilliance that dazzles.  Overwhelming. Sensational.

Others of us will manage merely the flicker of a candle.  Barely enough to see the pathway ahead.

Either way, it’s His light.  His.

I promise to do all I can.

For Him.  After all, it is His house we’re working on.

But, you may just want to keep that horse at a gallop for the time being.

 

“Everything comes from Him. His power keeps all things together. All things are made for Him. May He be honored forever. Let it be so.”
(Romans 11:36, NLV)

“Comparison is the thief of joy.”
(Theodore Roosevelt)

 

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