I Will Paint No More Forever

     My title is both a plagiarism and a mutilation of Chief Joseph's famous surrender speech to the U.S. Army--"From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever!" I have not fought any armies lately, but I had an experience last week that reminds me of the quote. Last year we decided that replacing the worn out siding on our house should wait until the cost recovers from Covid. Not the infection, the inflation caused by locked down homeowners relieving their boredom by remodeling their shelters. Instead, we would disguise the cracked siding on the south and west sides of the house with a fresh coat of paint. That decision is as far as the painting project got last summer. This summer we decided to actually buy the paint. The next phase of the project is even more labor intensive than going to the store, we have to brush it onto the siding. 

    I felt sorry for Reed painting in the evening after a long day's work, so last Tuesday I braved the afternoon heat to work on it myself. The weather was mid 80s and there was a little shade on the west side of the house at that time of day, but I was too compulsive to start a new side when the south side was only partially done. I spent a couple hours doing one of my least favorite tasks, and sweating, which is one of my least favorite conditions. I was even willing to resume slave labor after dinner to help out again, but not only did Reed say I didn't need to, he was repainting my sacrificial section of siding. I had not put the paint on heavy enough. The cracks he had painted were still visible from our neighbors house, but there were faint vertical lines showing on the siding I painted. Short of sloshing the paint from the bucket directly onto the house, I had no idea how to put it on thicker than I already had.

     At first I was angry, but then I realized, I was not a failure, I was free. What's not to love about not having to paint? Why should I do something I hate for someone I love when he was going to redo it anyway? I was just the mediocre middle man. In our 46 years of marriage, I have never put paint on heavy enough to satisfy Reed. His paint swatch default switch is set to two coats. The idea of either of us changing at this point is more cracked than the siding. I realized in that moment that not only did I not need to paint for this project, I NEVER NEED TO PAINT AGAIN! Chief Joseph lost his battle, I won the lottery. From where the sun stood on that fateful summer Tuesday--I will paint no more forever!                   

Enough

      I have wondered where my grief has gone. I no longer have to wear waterproof mascara every day to prevent racoon eyes from crying. But I do not want to make the mistake again of suppressing tears, because when I do that, the stress morphs into tightness at the base of my neck. I was told all women store their stress there, but in my experience, stress goes to our problem area. For some it is their bad back, for me it is migraine related, for Reed it is diverticular pain. I know the grief is in there, in me, but I am experiencing it differently. I expressed this in the following poem.

 

            Enough

 

My grief is not the same now

as it was when it began.

It no longer feels like hands

wringing tears from my heart.

 

But still, there are times

when sorrow smothers me--

when there is not enough

water to satisfy my thirst,

food to fill my hunger,

air to draw a deep breath,

or room to feel unbound in.

These waves of grief

come almost unrecognized

but for those stifled sensations . . .

and the traitorous thought that

all of God's good gifts to me

will never be enough 

to make up for losing you.

My grief is not the same now

but my God still is,

and when sorrow engulfs me,

I must let Him be  Enough.

 

         7/13/23