We Must Take Stock in Our Socks

Perfection is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. Anne Lamotte

I removed my socks last night, and just before I pulled them off I couldn’t help but notice I had a sizeable hole worn into the sock where the ball of my feet sits, or stands, or whatever it is the balls of one’s feet do when they are enveloped by a stocking.

Normally I would not have noticed such a thing, but darned if it wasn’t the fourth day in a row I had discovered holes worn into the day’s socks. As I sat down to type this I looked at the bottom of my shoeless feet (for I seldom wear shoes or slippers in the house) and I’ll be gob smacked into next week if another one of my footies doesn’t have a hole in it too!

Good heavens. I knew I was “called” to be holy – but to be actually “found” holey as well?

I suppose since I opened the package of stockings from which these came all at once, it makes sense that they would all wear out at about the same time as well. Fortunately, being a soul who knows the frailties of a sole, I have another package of footwear sitting in my dresser drawer. I can only pray that moths and other sock-eating vermin haven’t discovered these fresh goods yet.

It seems life is full of streaks. Back when we had sports (pre-Covid), people would note a player was on a hot streak or a cold streak, depending on his or her success while at bat or shooting baskets. I’d never considered myself much of a streaker, but apparently I have now joined that illustrious band of streaking athletes. I place myself in that category simply because I wear athletic socks, or I wear nothing at all – (on my feet, that is).

Nothing lasts forever, of course. Streaks end; socks get holes; shirt cuffs become frayed; buttons pop off; zippers even lose their little zippities. I lost a zip pull on one of my favorite coats a while back. I loved that coat and had worn it for several decades. It was still in pretty good shape and kept me warm and dry, so I replaced the pull with an extra-large paper clip. After a while, I had to admit it was a functional (though inelegant) solution, but the time had come to buy a new winter coat.

I’ve never been much of a clothes horse. I don’t mind wearing things until they’re past the “worn out” stage of life. I have no eye for fashion. I bought my first leisure suit a year after the civilized world decided leisure suits were ugly and stupid; I simply didn’t know any better. I think it was reruns of The Brady Bunch that inspired that particular choice at the time.

I suspect that could be one reason Jesus suggested we take our cue from the lilies of the field. “They neither sow nor reap, yet even Solomon in all his glory didn’t look nearly as sharp …” 

I wonder what it is about the human psyche that moves us to acquire so much stuff in life, or pursue the latest and greatest gadgets and gizmos. Perhaps Augustine, that wonderfully flawed saint from Hippo (North Arica – yes, that great theologian was an African) had it right when he said, “You have made us for yourself (O Lord), and the heart is restless until it finds its rest in You.”

Maybe we are little more than earth-socks. We’re worn, dingy, and have got holes that need darning. The itch that won’t go away is probably little more than God’s toes poking through those holes and waiting for us to stop long enough so God can stitch us up with love. It’s threads of love that knit us together (according to Colossians 2).

It’s both touching and ironic to think: God does not desire any of us to be damned, but works to darn us here in this life. One could even say, God is Knit-pickie and undy-feeted. 

One “could” say that, but I wouldn’t (at least not while wearing a leisure suit). Let’s just toe the line and love everyone alike here in this, our valley.

Masked Perfection

Perfection is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. Anne Lamotte 

Oh what fresh perdition are we in for today? 

I don’t know about you, but I am a bit tired of always being a bit tired. People are starting to talk about quarantine fatigue, and I understand the sentiment. I haven’t eaten a meal in or from a restaurant since at least March (and it could be February – I never thought to keep track). I go grocery shopping weekly and occasionally to the hardware store for some essential fix-it doo-dad. But beyond that (and my near-daily walks), I just haven’t gotten out of the house. 

I discovered some time ago that my view of the outside world during these days of the pandemic has been fairly well limited to what I can see from my front and back windows, and from what I’m exposed to on the television. I don’t really care for what I’m served from the telly, so I minimize my consumption in that regard. It’s not that I want to be ignorant, but I find it all so repetitious, and if the only thing one is exposed to is trash, well then it makes sense that it could be the source of that garbage feeling I’ve been getting. So I watch enough to confirm the world is still turning (as is my stomach) and then let it go for the sake of my peace of mind and sanity. 

Although life today is a bit of a mixed bag (or a bag of haggis, at any rate) there are things that help break us out of our stupor. Or at least I’ve got some things that keep me on my toes and remind me not to take life too seriously. 

We began a bathroom remodel at the first of the year and had the old tub and surround replaced with a beautiful walk-in shower and a shower pan that, remarkably, grips better when wet than when dry. I don’t know how they do that, but I love a grippy floor. I hate windmilling my way around a room or down a ramp, especially as the warranty on that thing laughingly called my body has been expired for quite a few decades. So to step into a shower and feel more secure than when wearing spike-shoes on ice is a wonderful feeling. 

When the surround was done, we purchased everything we needed to finish the bathroom remodel and it was delivered the day the state shut down for the current pandemic, so the garage looks like one of those long-forgotten and abandoned warehouses you see posted on those websites that major in minor weirdness. 

I tend to be pretty patient, so have quietly awaited the re-opening of the state. It has finally happened, so I have been able to round up contractors to drop by to give me estimates for finishing the bathroom (as the original team is no longer available). The struggle, though, has been remembering to unlearn all the things that come so automatically to us in a civilized society. 

As people trundle up the driveway, my first instinct is to open the door and do a “hail thee fellow well met,” but instead the new code of the west is to don our masks, stand six feet apart, and quick-draw a hand-waving finger-wiggle. The visitor makes every effort not to touch anything in the house as he takes measurements, listens to the muffled wishes of the homeowner, and asks questions through the hygienic face covering his wife has made him. 

We did (and do) the best we can under the circumstances. After a while, I suspect many of the things we find awkward today will become second nature. Just as hand-shaking originally signaled the lack of a claymore sword hidden up one’s sleeve, so the donning of a mask will come to represent one’s desire for the “other’s” good health. 

Some future generation watching television reruns may find themselves asking why the lone stranger took to wearing his mask up around his eyes, and when they do, I expect we’ll all have a big laugh in this, our valley. Until then, keep your distance, wash your hands, and keep your mouth and nose under wraps. We at the Madisonian want y’all healthy for Christmas, folks!