Staying true to a literal rendering of Labor Day, I did much laboring. Painting, specifically.
Changing wall color is fresh meat for the interior decorating monster. I’ve encountered the ID monster before. Just took me 18 years to realize he lives at the paint store. He’s the master of suggestion, planting ideas in the minds of gleeful wives fresh from convincing their husband some painting would be in his best interest.
Ideas like, “Hey, those curtains don’t really match the hue of that new wall color.” Or, “that new bedding doesn’t coordinate with the wall decorations.” Such diabolical suggestions can unleash an onslaught of decorating madness (or euphoria, depending on perspective). In the case of this past weekend, the paint brush suddenly found itself lonely as the search for new curtains took priority.
Curtains were purchased. Curtains were returned. Repeat, ad nauseam. Arguments brewed over what colors coordinate. My temper simmered from an overspent “painting” budget. And out of nowhere a tongue-in-cheek disagreement started as to whether one of us is color blind. As Katrina shared our painting fun with some facebook friends, someone commented, “Don’t forget, painting starts with ‘pain’.” Man, do I give an “Amen!” to that.
Despite attacks from the decorating monster, I do find joy in bringing newness through paint and other accessories. There’s a part of me, peeking from behind the dormant engineer, that appreciates colors that compliment. And well-placed accents. And when the dust settles, a room that is warm, peaceful and beckons, “dwell here.”
However, my appreciation for tasteful décor does not preclude times this past weekend when I wanted to drop-kick the paint can. Or scream at the sun as it blazed into the room in which I was cutting-in yellow paint next to white. Or rant about the first mark on my new paint job (I should be entitled to at least 24-hours with walls unmarked by children, right?). There were several moments I was cursing the curse, wanting to have words with Adam. At a minimum, I was certainly having words with myself.
My frustrations sent me tumbling head-long into the swamp of self pity. With each brush stroke I concocted another scenario of being underappreciated. Disrespected. Ignored. Used. My painting looked great, but my heart was ugly.
While waxing eloquent on another stanza of my miserable monologue, my wife jabbed me – verbally. It was a punch out of nowhere. Not a sucker punch, just a surprise. A sweet surprise. As she patiently listened to my grousing, she very simply stated, “But what you’re doing for us makes us happy.”
Happy? Hah! My first response (which I wisely kept to myself) was, “How nice for you. What’s anyone doing to make me happy?” It was then I received another punch. This one less sweet. And very direct. The Holy Spirit leveled a right-cross that rocked me. I put the brush down. Sat on my little painting stool. Breathed deep. And listened.
Moments like that still shock me. Even when I’m fully aware of being in a bad way, there’s times I keeping humming along to my sorry tune. I buy into the pitiful story that I deserve something I’m not getting. On the outside, I’m the helpful and cordial Dr. Jekyll. But inside, Mr. Hyde is raging. With Mr. Hyde around, I risk having my good actions sullied by selfishness. By demandingness. No matter how great the painted room might look, the lies of Mr. Hyde threaten to rob joy from the experience – both in the moment, and for months to come.
In those stool-sitting moments with God, I confronted the pain in my painting. I found that it wasn’t the painting that pained me. It was my desires. The desire for perennially fresh, unmarked walls. The desire for extended down time during a holiday weekend. The desire for more kudos for the way I was bustin’ it early in the morning and late at night. The desire for more money (or less spending). But such wanting reflects misplaced affections.
John Piper said, “Esteeming God less than anything is the essence of evil.” In those moments of self-pitied painting, I loved me most. My wife did not feel my love. Neither did my children. And my esteem for a well painted room pulled rank on my love for God. Sad, I know. Such is the struggle with life’s greatest tension: who, or what do I love – most?
I doubt the “pain” of painting will ever go away this side of heaven. I know my future holds many more run-ins with the ID monster. Knowing this to be true, I must guard against misplaced affections. Loving God is better than perfectly applied paint. Loving my family and enjoying their happiness is to be treasured more than marked-up walls. Still, there are moments when that’s easier said, than done.