Being vertically challenged, basketball and volleyball were never possibilities.
Having short legs, being a dancer was never in the cards.
Long waist, short legs makes being a gymnast awkward.
However, the short stature has obviously made me the perfect size for pressure washing.
We live in Florida. The sunshine state. Home to manatees, mangrove trees and mosquitoes.
And we grow mold like it’s our job.
We had been strongly encouraged by our Home Owners’ Association to deep clean our driveway because of said mold. Everything down here, because of the weather, at some point gets tinged a bilious green, rather like those things left in the back of the refrigerator for months on end. To remove this mold takes a pressure washer, a machine capable of shooting high powered water which obliterates the mold. (I’ve heard it’s capable of chopping off tips of shoes and toes, but I’ve avoided any possibility of that happening to me. I’m vigilant.)
John had borrowed a friend’s pressure washer and was doing the deed in the driveway. I was doing some cleaning, laundry–part of what I do. I glanced out the front door and saw my husband bent over the wand of the washer. An awkward angle at best. But with his bad back, I knew he’d experience pain in just a few hours.
I walked out and tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention. (This gizmo is loud! Plus he had ear buds in. He was rocking to the Beach Boys.)
“I can do this,” I told him.
“It’s pretty powerful,” he replied. As if being a short woman precludes me from powerful machines. Made me want to do it all the more.
He nodded. Can’t argue with the truth. He was already feeling twingy.
So he showed me. Not rocket science, mind you. But that thing, when it was on, had a kick.
Which made it all the more fun.
I didn’t have to bend. I didn’t get twingy. I didn’t have an awkward posture. It fit me. Perfect length for my stumpy body.
And I’ve got to tell you, there’s something about seeing that mold disappear and white concrete reveal itself that is satisfying. There’s not much in my life that has closure that quickly.
I crab a lot about being short. Especially having short legs. I’d have made me differently. Possibly a dancer’s body. Long, willowy legs, graceful arms.
Yet I know I’m made with a purpose. Not just how I’m put together physically. The inside as well. Talents, gifts, personality.
God does that because everyone is made in His image. With purpose. Love. Hope. Possibilities.
He calls it fearfully and wonderfully made.
And in Him, I can be the best me possible. A purposeful and hopeful me.
I can always find things about me that are less than pleasing. But God finds me pleasing because I’m His.
After all, how many people can say they were built to pressure wash?
First photo courtesy of flickr.com.