By Rita Klundt

I don’t know what came over me, but with all the important and productive things I need to be doing, I started the work of restoring some used and unusable furniture. No experience. No particular expertise. Just a little advice from a friend and loads of general tips on the internet.

The furniture was among, and had become, part of the “junk in the basement.” Valuable living space was occupied by dated hardware attached to an ugly and abused nightstand, dresser, chest, and some other piece I have no name for. It needed to go, even if only to make room for less ancient, junky stuff.

Paint and new brushes filled me with ambition. I prepared the workspace, and plugged in my old boom box. Then the fun started! Hours shopping for new hardware were going to pay off. The chest still needed some real creativity since one of its drawers was beyond repair, so I started with the little nightstand. It had been desecrated by Crayola in the hands of a toddler, but was otherwise sturdy and workable. I scrubbed. Red crayon goes deep. I sanded until I quit. A coat of primer had been recommended. Finally, real progress!

The next morning was sunnier than the days before. My mood was lifted along with the window shade, but then I saw red. “No problem,” I said aloud although I was alone in the room. “Another coat of primer will take care of that.” And it did.

The feeling of satisfaction is addictive. The nightstand was adorable with its topcoat applied. My other important and productive work, like laundry, dishes and writing were scheduled for later in my days. I still had a dresser, chest and that “other” piece to complete. More scrubbing and sanding. Some repairing and replacing of drawer glides. By the time the second piece was finished, I knew this was more than a simple addiction. It was a commitment. I shopped for drawer liners to match the soft gray paint. Pride in my accomplishment was approaching the level of sinful.

With his eyes, my husband told me, “It’s still old furniture.”

A simple distraction from work had become work. But now, I had something to prove.

Mornings drifted into afternoons and evenings as I sanded, painted, and then sanded off the layer of imperfect paint from the day before. For something so vital, patience is hard to learn. Applying multiple thin coats of paint, and watching each layer dry, seems inefficient, but is undeniably the best method. This project taught me that patience is nothing more than a profitable form of stubbornness. I’m set!

Best of all was my husband’s smile when he saw the scrappy furniture restored and in an upstairs bedroom. He did most of the lifting to get it there. Dollar signs flew through his mind and landed in his savings account as he recalled the price tags on the bedroom furniture we almost bought.

I sat in front of my computer on the day after my furniture project had been completed. There were stories waiting to be written, emails waiting to be answered, and dishes in the sink. I would rather have been painting furniture and was tempted enough to consider the junk in someone else’s basement.

“Don’t go dragging more stuff into this house!” Yep, my husband knows where to draw a line. My finger nails are weeks away from accepting a proper manicure, and my wrists hurt at the sight of sand paper or paint. We both know I need a break from the physical labor. I suppose it’s back to my ordinary and usual work schedule. Restoration was hard on me. I wonder, will overnight guests even appreciate what I’ve done?

Still, the thought of another restoration project won’t leave me. Maybe it’s my age, but seeing that something old can be fixed and re-purposed gives me extraordinary hope. My Aunt Margie left me her old armoire. It needs a little work to earn its way upstairs. There is a table and a couple of matching chairs. Surely, with some sanding and a fresh application of varnish, someone would want and use them.

Soon. I’ll get to them soon.

The verse on my mind this morning before I opened my eyes was Psalm 53:10: “Create in me a clean heart, O God, And renew a steadfast spirit in me.” Before opening emails, editing yesterday’s writing, and definitely before loading the dishwasher, I opened my Bible and read those words again.

I kept reading. Verses 11-17:

“Do not cast me away from Your presence,
And do not take Your Holy Spirit from me.

Restore to me the joy of Your salvation,
And uphold me by Your generous Spirit.
Then I will teach transgressors Your ways,
And sinners shall be converted to You.

Deliver me from the guilt of bloodshed, O God,
The God of my salvation,
And my tongue shall sing aloud of Your righteousness.
O Lord, open my lips,
And my mouth shall show forth Your praise.
For You do not desire sacrifice, or else I would give it;
You do not delight in burnt offering.
The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit,
A broken and a contrite heart—
These, O God, You will not despise.” (NKJV)

I read the verses again—this time, as a sincere pray. My confessions will remain private, but here are some truths I found again this morning:

• I’m broken, but God’s creation. He thinks I’m worth the work of restoration.
• The work I’m doing doesn’t invite others to Jesus nearly as often as it should. I need daily restoration.
• Sanding off damage and neglect hurts.
• I can slap a thick coat of paint on sin and call it good enough, or better than most, but that won’t make me beautiful or add to my value.
• I’m too easily pacified, yet seldom satisfied with mediocre.
• I can always find a good project to distract me from the real work of restoration. I can sacrifice, and make sure people see the good I’ve done, but those efforts will not restore the joy of His salvation.

Heavenly Father,

Create in me a clean heart. Thank you for remembering me. Remind me of the plans you’ve made, and restore me to your purpose. Forgive me when I’ve looked on others and seen a “project” rather than a sinner, like me, in need of restoration. I praise and honor you for your generous Spirit. Let others see me, not for the work I’ve done, but for what you are creating in me. Amen.