overwhelmed

photo by Eric Prouzet on Unsplash

She asked me if I could fix the rotten trim on the exterior of her house. She’s alone now and the love of her life isn’t around to work his magic anymore.

And somehow, the sun keeps beating down on it, and the rain keeps seeping into it, and the paint keeps shrinking off of it, and the years keep passing.

She is overwhelmed. I get it.

But I am merely a retired shopkeeper and sometime writer. I don’t have any magic in my hands, and certainly, no carpentry skills honed by constant use over the years. When I have picked up a hammer and saw, I’ve usually been a helper, taking instruction from those who do have skills.

I may have attempted a few things on my own—sheetrock repair, laying a vinyl floor, even stripping a hardwood floor before refinishing it. But I promise you there was no magic—no great skill—involved.

But we’re talking about windows here!

Windows? I know how to look out of them at the world spinning on its way. While drinking my coffee. With a book in my hand. Sometimes, I yell at the unruly dogs through them. Mostly, I sit beside them and read.

I don’t have the slightest idea of how to replace a sill, or a sash, or even a casing. There are angles to get right, and joints to fit carefully. Gaps to be caulked (if the joints haven’t been fitted carefully).

And, there’s glass. Always close by. Always ready to be cracked. Or chipped. Or smashed outright.

Still, she is overwhelmed. I give in. Reluctantly. And, with reservations.

“I’ll come look at it. No promises.”

She smiles.

The looking thing I promised to do? It’s a disaster. There’s a rotted sill here, two rotted side casings there, and everywhere I look, cracked and ruined head casings.

I go from window to window, and then back to the ones I’ve already examined, exclaiming in dismay.

And, there are door sills. And, corner trims. And, even lap-siding.

She’s overwhelmed? I’m flabbergasted!

“I can’t do this! This is way past my capabilities. Sorry, I just can’t.”

She understands. We’ll find someone else to do it.

Still. I wonder…

A talk with my brother-in-law is in order. He knows me. He’s been the skilled laborer beside whom I’ve toiled, holding boards while they were sanded, and propping trim up in place while it was tacked securely. He knows what I’m capable of.

That, of course, also implies he knows what I’m not capable of.

“Exterior window trim? Oh, you can do that. Come look.”

I follow the man outside his workshop, around to the back where we stand in the tall weeds as we gaze at the old single-hung, single-pane windows lining the wall. Pointing here, gesturing there, he gives me a quick tutorial on what needs to be done.

After my mentor finishes his instruction, he reiterates.

“This is something you can do! But, if you do get into trouble, I’m just a phone call away.”

I can do this! His confidence becomes mine. Not to mention, I’ve now got back-up if I make a mess of things.

But, as I head home, with every intent to call her and tell her I’ll do the job, I see once again, in my memory, every single window, door, and wall that needs attention. Except, they’re not single; they’re one huge collection.

I can’t do this.

But, wait! That’s it, isn’t it? No, not that I can’t do this—that it’s a huge collection of labor to be tackled and not individual tasks to be accomplished.

Finally, I know what to tell her.

“I’ve decided to give it a shot. One window. To start. Yep, just one. We’ll go from there.”

She is not sure, but one is better than none, so she agrees.

I started with the worst window. The one on the southwest side. The sun beats down on it daily, even in the winter. The rain blasts against it nearly every time a storm blows through.

Last week, I started on it. The one window.

Tomorrow, I’ll brush a final coat of white paint over the new wood (which I’ve measured, and sawed, and nailed), the caulk (you knew the joints wouldn’t fit that well), and the primer (I may have had help with that). It’ll be finished.

I’ve even done the one beside it.

The red-headed lady who raised me, drawing an old saw (the word kind, not the wood-cutting variety) from her interminable collection, would have suggested that I bit off more than I could chew.

I didn’t.

I’m simply doing the job set before me. One window—one door—one piece of siding at a time, I’m going to do it.

One task at a time.

The one who knows me says I can do it. Who am I to argue with the witness of such a man? He’s seen my victories and my failures. He’s heard me crow about a job completed; he’s heard me mutter under my breath about several I couldn’t finish on my own.

But, there’s more to this than these old windows and a faulty door frame or two, isn’t there? Surely it’s clear I’m not only talking about a handyman job to be done.

All my life, the unattainable goals have risen before me. I’m sure I’m not the only one.

I can’t help but think about others (besides her) who are overwhelmed today.

The one he loves has been taken from him, and he has no clue how he’ll ever function normally again. But, he can set the alarm clock for tomorrow morning. And, see how it goes from there.

The doctor said the word to her yesterday. Terminal. The future is suddenly so utterly burdensome and black that she can’t imagine how she’ll ever cope. So many decisions. So many hard conversations that will have to be endured. But, maybe just one phone call today. Just one. After that? She’ll just have to see.

Does it never end—the waves that seek to oversweep us?

I have, numerous times, sat at the seaside and wondered. As far as the eye can see—waves racing to the shore. They seem never to diminish.

And, just as those literal waves seem so unassailable as we look at them, the metaphorical ones appear even more insurmountable as our spirits consider them.

Financial issues, family problems, sickness, loss. A college degree to be earned, a contract to be fulfilled, a parent with dementia to be cared for, a promise made that appears impossible to be kept.

And yet, the One who called us has guaranteed to see it through to the end.

With us. Beside us. In us.

For I am sure of this very thing, that the one who began a good work in you will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus. (Philippians 1:6 ~ NET)

But we have to run the course set out in front of us. One day at a time. Or perhaps, just one step at a time.

The Israelites, tired of wandering in the wilderness, had to put their feet into the water of the Jordan before the water moved out of their way. One step. And another one. And another one. All leading home. (Joshua 3:14-17 ~ NET)

Home.

The Promised Land lies ahead. Not very far, now. But, then again, maybe many miles. Still, we’ll get there one step at a time.

Overwhelmed simply means we’re ready to be overshadowed.

Most gladly therefore will I boast of my infirmities rather than complain of them—in order that Christ’s power may overshadow me.
(2 Corinthians 12:9 ~ Wey)

I have another window to do next week. One more.

After that, we’ll see.

Not overwhelmed.

Overshadowed.

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, we must get rid of every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and run with endurance the race set out for us…
(Hebrews 12:1 ~ NET)

Faith is taking the first step even when you don’t see the whole staircase.
(Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. ~ American minister/activist ~ 1929-1968)

I woke up this morning and, looking out the window, wondered about the fog.

Didn’t the weather man say it would be sunny this morning?

Mere seconds later, the fog cleared. No, not the fog I was seeing through the window. The fog in my brain.

Looking at the window again, I remembered that the exterior storm windows, set at a distance of a few inches from the original single-pane glass, hold in the moisture of the night. On cold mornings, the view through the windows is dim and foggy, regardless of the weather outside.

Sunny. There was no fog—no mist.

A beautiful morning.

It would not be many more hours before the fog was back. The fog in my head, I mean.

I read the words once. “Saying goodbye to my father…”

I read them again, this time through tears. His father is a friend, an encourager, a tease. One of my favorite people.

It’s not true. He can’t be dead.

I don’t know what happened to the sun. Perhaps the tears that came unbidden fogged up the view, but it was dim even after I wiped them away.

The rest of my day was viewed through a dark lens. Tears, sarcasm, anger—all of them were close to the surface and likely to be unleashed without provocation.

I argued with two young men on separate occasions this afternoon. They needed to know how dark the world is.

I took care of that task.

One of them, a man in his late twenties, now clearly understands that his days of carefree happiness are numbered. The reality of death, which will close in to take scores of his friends as he ages, has been explained thoroughly to him.

The second, a slightly older father of two, now grasps fully the ugliness of sin hidden inside every person he respects and loves. I did my best to explain to him that it would be every person who would disappoint. Every person.

The red-headed lady who raised me would have suggested at this juncture that misery loves company.

I wasn’t done yet.

Late this afternoon a longtime friend about my own age related his enjoyment at watching a documentary of a famous singer who, though struggling with Alzheimer’s, still finished his farewell concert tour. It seemed, to my friend, a triumph in the face of overwhelming odds.

Astounded that anyone should see even one ray of sunshine on such an obviously dark day, I set him straight, citing my mother’s experience with the horrible disease before her death last summer. I wasn’t gentle, helping him to understand with graphic descriptions of the horror.

I have apologies to make.

More than that, I need to learn to trust a loving God, who sees the beginning and the end. When events overwhelm, He sends messengers to offer words of comfort, but I, drowning in the dark waves, attempt to pull them down as well.

I will make my apologies.

Learning to trust will take longer—perhaps a lifetime.

Tonight, I’m in agreement with the Psalmist, who suggested that he had some complaints to make and asked that they be heard. (Psalm 64:1)

Funny thing. He got to the end of his complaining and found there was light at the end of the darkness. (Psalm 64:10)

Light. And hope.

It is not so dark here as I thought.

I’m hearing from lots of my friends who believe the entire world is dark and without hope. Events and fears have colored the glass through which they view all of God’s creation.

This morning, as I walked out of my house, the sunshine was brilliant beyond description. The storm windows, designed to protect, had given an illusion of a world covered in cloud.

Beyond the illusion, the sun is still shining.

The light has shined into darkness and has not been overcome by it.

It is not so dark out here.

Following the light of the sun, we left the Old World.
(Christopher Columbus ~ Italian explorer ~ ca. 1451-1506)

Trust in the Lord with all your heart,
And lean not on your own understanding;
In all your ways acknowledge Him,
And He shall make smooth your paths.
(Proverbs 3:5-6 ~ NKJV)

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