“I’ve also been cleaning houses for twenty-five years. Getting them ready for realtors. Even sprucing them up for estate sales,” says a tall hefty woman, her short brunette hair pulled back into a ponytail. “And I also paint,” she adds, while shifting her weight onto her other foot and holding a bucket filled with bottles of vinegar and distilled water, sponges, squeegees, and clean cloths.

Because eleven years of grime had besmirched the windows of my bungalow, I decided to have them washed. And on the morning of dribbling rain, likened to the incontinence of an embarrassed dowager, my new friend showed up, her quiet smile assuring me of her expertise. Immediately, she set to work on the living room windows while I returned to my word processor.

Time passed. On my way to the kitchen I noted the sparkle of the “forest pansy” redbud tree through my bedroom window. And so, for the rest of the morning, my windows began to look out upon the crystalline wet world I had only experienced during walks. Within my bungalow I could now enjoy the true colors of the outdoors.

I had been helped.

Its deeper lesson soon emerged: the surrender to Creator God who alone has power to wash clean my stuff (the grime) in order to relish the true colors of my Senior years seasoned with daily challenges. Such appreciation emboldens spirit and readies it for its transition.

 

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