Paint

I am waiting for the paint to dry.

Literally.

My roommate gave me a small, white unassuming end table that I saw as a blank slate, a project. I paint it with a vengeance that could only be preceded by an exhaustive, frustrating week.

As I painted, I became frustrated with the drying paint, so easily absorbed by the wood surface. I felt like the wood was taking advantage of all the paint I so liberally applied to the surface; when would it be enough? I become infuriated with the tight corners and careful edges. I begin to paint with a mantra; it is all about the details.

I remember I was watching this show once about people doing horrible things with the aspiration of gaining something for themselves. One character asks a question in an attempt to justify their actions. The other character responds simply, “God is in the details.”

I think, God is in the details.

I have been so ungrateful for this week. In the most cliched and terse phrasing, I have been drowning. I wanted to press reset and start over. I feel like each and every one of my efforts has been met by adversity. Each step I take feels so small in the grand scheme of things.

But at least they are steps. They are small strokes on a bigger surface. I don’t know how big that surface is. Most days, I am not really sure whose surface I am painting on or if anyone is painting on mine. I just keep painting.

I am trying to be grateful for the paint I have been given.

I keep hoping. I am doing my best to work passionately on those small things: the grades, the grad school applications, the endless grades, and the emotional turmoil.

I hope God is always in those details.

-les