Whenever I sweep my kitchen floor, I use my grandmother’s old broom and a cheap green dustpan that I purchased at the local grocery store. I am sure there are more progressive versions of the dustpan on the market, but I have never taken the time to search for one. I just stick with what resides in my broom closet.
“And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply…”
I ask my girls to draw the nativity to make ornaments for the tree. Virginia simply draws a manger and a babe, feels that’s enough to get the point across, then moves on to begin her next picture.
I watch Mary Helen as she carefully draws the manger, then places a frowning baby in it and colors the manger orange. She picks up a pencil, presses down hard, and draws a tiny Mary and Joseph and three itty bitty wisemen. The babe in the manger seems huge, way larger than the miniature people she has drawn.
This morning I woke up early for band practice before church. The sun rose, as it seemed to me, even earlier, unaffected by the numbers on my alarm clock and the recent time change reflected there. It filtered new rays of light through a canopy of misty clouds, sending with them what may be the last remains of the season’s warmth. A cool breeze blew through branches overhead, teasing the leaves still holding fast to near-winter branches while their less tenacious rusty-brown brethren rustled together across the driveway.
I stroll down the streets of Charleston, passing hundreds of beautifully preserved homes, most of them with workmen on porches. Homeowners preserving, constantly fighting decay. Paint chipping, wood rotting, iron and metal rusting from the warm salt air. The word “salt” keeps running through my mind, and I wonder how salt can preserve and tenderize meat, yet rust through the iron and metal adorning these homes. I think of the immense cost in preserving these historic homes, and I am reminded that there is cost in being salt, in being a preserver of good, of the things of God.