Pressure Washing With Jesus

An approaching cold front compels me to finish pressure washing the house as soon as possible. An abrupt drop from near 80 degrees into the 30s threatens to generate violent weather this evening.

The job of pressure washing the house in preparation for painting resembles the job of parachuting from an airplane, once you start, you’re committed for the whole trip down.

Wish I hadn’t started in the first place, but since I have, I need to see the job through to the bitter end.

I’m engaged in the mindless task of running the pressure nozzle back and forth, back and forth, blasting one board at a time, trying to cover each one evenly.

The high-pressure jet of water peels dirt, algae and old paint from the deck and walls; it will also peel skin.

Care to guess how I found that out?

So I need to pay attention to what I’m doing and the noise of the motor chugging along building pressure precludes all thought.

Like an automaton I sway back and forth, spraying and avoiding getting sprayed. No thought involved. No prayers uttered. No plans made.

Where is Jesus on days like this?

“Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee,” Isaiah said.

But my mind is not stayed on anything but layers of grime, spider webs, wasp nests, splashback and tangled hoses.

What part does the Lord God play in the rote?

One of the apocryphal gospels quotes Jesus as saying, “When thou hewest the firewood, I am there. When thou drawest water from the well, I am there. For where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I in the midst of them”.

In some religious homes, I’ve seen a wall plaque that says, “Christ is the head of this house, the unseen guest at every meal, the silent listener to every conversation”.

Over the noise of the pressure washer motor, if I think at all, I think about naked ladies I’ve seen on the internet; but mostly my mind dwells on horrible mistakes I’ve made in the past, people I’ve offended, sins I’ve enjoyed but regret, opportunities I’ve flubbed, remorse I deserve.

And I despair.

Yet as I see cleansing water blast away grime, I cling to the phrase of Scripture where God says we are accepted in the Beloved. Welcomed by the Father because we are friends of His Son. And the worthiness of Jesus outweighs every stupid, petty, wicked thing I’ve ever done.

Yes, even that.

So I spray away roach eggs latched deep in crevices. And I knock wasp nests out from behind the light fixtures. And I get soaked in splashback and my glasses get fogged and my hair gets tangled …

And in the rote of this mindless day, I walk with God.

———

Monday night in the grocery store parking lot I got played for a patsy.

Again.

Ginny says I walk around with a bright neon sign above my head. A giant red arrow points to me flashing the message:

SUCKER! SUCKER! SUCKER!

Every bum, wineo, homeless person, crazy, scam artist, and needy soul in Jacksonville zeros in on me when they see that flashing sign and hit me up for money.

But that’s ok.

I have plenty of money to give away; my wife works.

Ginny and I get accosted by poor people so often that I make a habit of carrying a couple of dollars, enough for a burger, fries and a coke, in a separate pocket away from our own spending money. That way I don’t have to fumble with my wallet when accosted but have a ready amount in reserve to give. (Greedy folks have been known to grab a person’s whole billfold or purse as the donor fumbled for loose change to give).

Mostly when I’m on the street, I just try to look belligerent so poor people will be intimidated and not ask me for anything — that’s what Jesus would do, isn’t it?

Anyhow, last night I successfully avoided two homeless guys who ensconce themselves at either end of the long bench the store has outside for customers. For ages these guys have systematically panhandled shoppers.

They are regular fixtures and I know to avoid them.

But later, as Ginny and I loaded our week’s groceries in the back of the car, a pickup truck pulled up behind us and a young woman began her patter from the driver’s seat.

Husband beat me and stole my purse. Need to pick up my little girl. Have a place waiting at the shelter. Churches won’t help. Cops no good. Running on fumes. Need gas money.

I’ve heard such tales dozens of times before.

A systematic scam?

Or a genuine need?

As I listened to the woman’s tale of woe, Ginny finished loading our groceries. She later told me that she was praying that I’d give this woman exactly what was really needed. No more. No less.

I reviewed my options: Send her packing. Give her the few reserve bills I keep in a separate part of my wallet for just such appeals. Give her the money I’d brought along to buy supper out for our own dinner.

Suspecting this was just another scam, I nevertheless shelled out a few shekels. Feeling like a fool while I did it. What if this woman’s need was real?

We Christians can afford to be taken in by a scam; we can not afford to neglect God’s poor.

So I gave.

But I gave grudgingly.

Ginny said she’d prayed that I’d do just the right thing. She said, “If you’d given her nothing or if you’d have given her all we had, it would have been the right thing. We are guided in these matters”.

Yes, we are.

But I forget that.