Purple Stains

How is it that I can fall so short, beat myself up so hard, and have such trouble picking myself up off the floor? What happened to grace for my husband? For myself?

Purple PVC primer on four month old white appliances, on wood cabinets, on tile, on grout, and eucharisteo vanishes. We are late to prayer and worship practice before church, and I have trouble engaging in worship because I see purple stains splattered across our new kitchen. “Remember, it’s just stuff,” someone says to me. I think about my prior post—the simple life. But it’s “stuff” I have to look at each day, as well as anyone who steps foot in our house. How do I give thanks for this?

Sermon starts and pastor is preaching on evangelism. I think of how that’s the last thing I can think of at the time. She had a dream and begins to interpret. Three people were in her dream, and she is going to point them out.

Attention shifts back to purple.

Dollar signs flash.

I stare at Bible open on my lap and hear my name being called. “Jennifer Deg, you have a strong anointing for evangelism.”

She continues talking. I see her mouth move but can’t exactly make out the words.

Face goes blank.

Tears flow.

Me? Ungrateful, distracted, non-grace giving me? An anointing for evangelism? I’d heard it before, but where was the fruit of it? Where was the fruit of anything in my life? I had been turned down the week prior by someone I knew when I asked if I could pray for her. It was a first. The first I remember anyway. I’ll admit that I was somewhat offended when it happened.

Where is the eucharisteo? The grace? The joy? Was this a true prophetic word, or a mix up? Service ends, and I go up front to be anointed with oil for evangelism. It is an open call. I feel silly, as I was told I already have the anointing. I am searching for something—anything to confirm.  I am told I have already been called—that the offenses are rolling off of me so that I can evangelize.

I cry and cry and cry.

She laughs and laughs and laughs.

What is she hearing? I leave the church silently, not even speaking to husband. I usually lack no words. I am thinking of souls, unthankfulness, and purple primer—the mess I am headed home to. There are souls at stake, and I’m worried about stains in my kitchen. White dishwasher and oven stained purple. What about the hearts and lives outside of my home that are stained with hurt, regret, fear, and unbelief? What about my heart that is discolored with unthankfulness and doubt about God’s calling on my life?

How can I lead others to Christ when I’m so judgmental and critical and self-righteous? I would need a “road to Damascus” encounter to change from a Saul to a Paul. It seems so far away. Oh, that I could have the grace and patience of my husband. That he would have the call instead of me.

But he does.

He’s gotten the word before.

His words are smooth.

Mine cut deep. But didn’t Paul’s? Why the frustration? Why the discontentment? Why the lack of eucharisteo, of grace? Why the call to evangelism on a morning when I didn’t feel like going to church? Why the call the morning after a long day of celebrating my late father’s life? Why, when I was looking forward to a day of rest, did the morning start with splattered purple and a call I feel unqualified for?

I’d heard it before while deep in worship one day: I don’t call the equipped. I equip the called.

Is the overhaul possible? Necessary? Is the name change crucial? How can I live in the fullness of eucharisteo in the midst of things not so great? Or is there greatness in everything, and I am just too blind to see it? Oh, what I wouldn’t give to laugh at purple stained appliances and cabinets and tile one day, to not care what it looks like to others, to not care what it looks like to me. What I wouldn’t give to have grace for my husband who spends the morning on knees scrubbing hard. There’s always tomorrow. Yes, thank God there is always a new day. That’s what I will write for my daily entry in my gratitude journal.