Sunday Stories, March 19, 2017

A Little White Paint

Sometimes I feel incredibly alone in the world. Solitude is not a physical reality. It’s mental. I look around and think, “Am I the ONLY person that hears the world crying? Am I the ONLY one trying to make the world a better place? Do the cynics have it right? Is all in vain? My thought pattern of detachment is ridiculously centrifugal. Yet, the struggle is real and some days are very dark and discouraging.

It is my opinion that loneliness is the deadliest disease on the planet. How many bad choices are made, with the best intentions, to remedy this state? We settle for a temporary ‘less than the best’ quick fix and lose hope of ever finding a place of deep contentment and belonging. When hope is depleted, life’s energy soon follows and the ultimate decision puts finality to the internal, secret pain.

A river runs through the country side of North Faulkner County, Arkansas. The Cadron Creek holds my heart. My husband grew up along its banks exploring, fishing, swimming, becoming a man. One late summer day in 1981, standing on the bluffs above, with only the whispering breeze and gurgling brook’s music, Keith first spoke words of love to me. Our own children splashed in the shallow pools and years later our oldest spoke her marriage vows at the water’s edge.

A dusty, country road and old wooden trestle once connected farms and people separated by the Cadron’s expanse. It has been replaced with a modern concrete structure well above the threat of flooding, and the dirt lane is now a paved thoroughfare. Yet still, it is a road less traveled making our bridge easy prey for those who feel compelled to leave marks of hatred, racism and immorality displayed. Many times a week I must cross through this profane pollution on a school bus filled with eyes that should not see such ugliness. It hurts.

God does not leave His children comfortless. On a recent afternoon I came down the steep hill approaching the creek crossing and saw someone standing on the bridge. It was a dad, with a bucket of white paint. I slowed the bus and he paused in his labor to turn, smile and wave at the students as we passed. Conversation quickly turned to the man making their world a better place. A short time later two young sons got off the bus and asked their mother to take them to join their father in giving the gift of goodness and community.

This bucket of white paint did so much more than cover graffiti. It healed a heart and gave hope.

There are two antidotes to the toxic venom of obsessive despondency. Do good, alone if you must, and deliberately acknowledge the endeavors of others to overcome sin’s path of destruction. YOUR HAPPINESS MUST NOT DEPEND ON THE NUMBER OF PEOPLE WILLING TO HELP OR APPLAUD YOU. You will end up back where you began, discouraged and overwhelmed.

A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in His Holy dwelling, God sets the lonely in families, He leads out the prisoners with singing; but the rebellious live in the sun-scorched land. Psalms 68:5-6.

At the age of twelve I decided to follow Jesus. At age eighteen I learned that even if no one joins me, still I must follow. (I Have Decided to Follow Jesus, abbreviated.) Be like Jesus. Someone is watching and you are making a far reaching difference.

With All My Love,

Gretchen