Susan: Pressing into a High Calling

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By Susan Shanklin

Yikes, it’s August. The tall green corn around here is tasseling soft tan tones. The chubby tomatoes are rippening, and the zucchini are turning into mini-tugboats. I need to suck in every twinkle of sunshine, for leaves will turn and swirl to the ground, and then that white stuff cascades from the sky. I can’t even say that word.

I keep my eyes forward, and I am thankful for what I have accomplished in the first eight months after moving from a beautifully finished house to a not-so-beautiful unfinished house. I am thankful, though, for the metal roof over my head.

People will ask if we are done with our projects, and I truly just have to roll my eyes. I try, I mean I really try, not to be a complainer, but this old house we bought was more than we bargained for in a way of a fixer-upper.

The housing market was on steroids, but we wanted to be closer to family just north of the Twin Cities, so we had to move fast when something fell into our price range.

After we purchased the house, the smelly carpets had to be removed, and air ducts had to be cleaned of a massive amount of gross dog hair before we could even start on repairs. The kitchen floor was taken down to the original wood floor.

Tom scheduled his back surgery a week after we moved after being told of a quick recovery. Well, that didn’t happen, and progress has been slow both inside and outside of the house.

I have fought discouragement and disappointment often, only having to shake myself to stick with the God of the universe. I will say, He is the best handyman to have! He is a great Master Builder.

Not long ago, I painted the walls of the stairwell some 17 feet high. It’s a craftsman bungalow style house, so you take six steps up to a landing, turn, and take another eight steps to another landing on the second floor. I had contemplated hiring someone to paint it for us, but, as you know, money sometimes has wings when you are repairing an old house. It just seems to fly away without even saying goodbye.

I said to Tom one day, “I’m going to try to paint the stairwell.”

Even though something may seem beyond your capability and proficiency, at least you have to make an effort, take it on, and give it a go. Right?

I will admit that it took me a while to assemble my rollers, brushes, and paint. It seemed so daunting. So impossible. How am I ever going to reach all those so very high places?

Well, by the grace of God and a mighty shove from some angels, I start.

I started with linen white paint next to the dark trim boards without masking tape. I would work my way up the steps with my eyes about four inches from the dark trim, Slowly, ever so slowly, painting my white line, all the time dreading that I would have to repeat this same process with a second coat!

I could give up and live with the yellow pea-colored ceiling and the avocado green walls … or keep going. You know what? You have to keep going!

I used a roller for the walls and then the extender paint pole. I can only get halfway up with the pole standing on the stair treads. Ok, God, how are we going to do this?

I keep painting as far as I can reach, sometimes standing on my tiptoes. I would find myself leaning and stretching well beyond my comfort zone over railings and walking up and down the stairs with the paint roller on the pole. Tom was able to reach up and squish paint in some high places where the walls met the ceiling.

I had a pretty good run at it, and I could see less and less yellow and green paint.

Good, I’ll knock this out in no time. Right? Well, of course, you know the answer to that.

Meanwhile, Tom gets a cold and a few days later he is prodded to test for Covid. Yep, he got Covid.

Tom’s not doing too bad and can pretty much take care of himself while I continue to paint.

A couple of days later, I’m up on the second set of stairs, and I’m not feeling too steady. Vertigo sets in, and my head is spinning. I have a paint roller in one hand, and the other hand is clenched around the stair railing. Woe, I am having a hard time focusing. I navigate my way to the bedroom and lay down on the bed. The room is spinning.

I think to myself. I’ve got to finish painting! I will rest a bit and try again.

I begin again half woozy, rolling and gripping onto the railing. I have these mental pictures of losing control and tumbling down the stairs … paint flying, and me in a heap. Ouch.

I tell Tom I’m taking a break and will start up again tomorrow.

I don’t feel too terrific on the morrow, but I do push on because I’m almost done!

As I’m pushing, I, too, am encouraged to test for Covid. Yep, positive.

I’m dragging, man. Really dragging. I press on because I’m almost there. I’m almost done. Hooray, The skyscraper is painted! Thank you, Jesus!

The only thing good that came out of my second bout with Covid is my grand and gorgeous fresh linen white stairwell!