Tip of My Iceberg

It’s been two months since our bathroom was demolished. The bathtub didn’t hold water, the toilet leaked (it was as gross as it sounds), and the sink was no longer connected to the countertop. We’d saved for this–everything was thirty years old, and the truth is nothing is made as well as it once was.

To complicate matters, everyone in the house had to share one bathroom and one shower. It was not an impossibility; it was an inconvenience.

A few days ago, the job was finished. I walked in, wondering if I was in my own home. Where there once was an old, worn-out, dilapidated bathroom now stood a new room, shiny and bright. Everything worked well. Everything looked beautiful.

I’m not a person who relishes new things. I was raised by frugal parents who taught me the value of a dollar, and I learned to make do with what I was given. I grew up with a respect for hand-me-downs (we were the oldest, so we handed our things down to our younger sister and received clothes from aunts), appreciating things new to me. As our kids grew, we frequented thrift stores and garage sales, always on the hunt for treasures that others had tired of. One person’s trash is, after all, another person’s treasure.

Admiring this new bathroom reminded me of what a big deal it was. We’d saved, but I put off beginning the project because I couldn’t make decisions on what I wanted it to look like; I didn’t know what I wanted it to look like. It became a collaborative effort among our kids, and they made choices and asked if I liked them.

New things are a mixed blessing. Sometimes, I enjoy the idea of new and unused, but I also appreciate the comfort of the known–the cozy couch that sags where I’ve sat, the sweatpants that are comfy because they’re so worn, even the frayed edges of a well-read book.

New is wonderful when it’s an improvement and when it creates the opportunity to move forward from failure or frustration. Life is full of our need for do-overs; sometimes we get the chance to try again. Often we don’t.

God does give us that chance. It’s more than just going through a carwash and getting all the dirt and grime removed from a vehicle. That makes a car look like new. It’s more like what the fairy godmother did for Cinderella when she changed her from a dirt-covered servant to a woman of value with a “bippity-boppity-boo”.

God doesn’t use magic. He uses love to change us.

“This means that anyone who belongs to Christ has become a new person. The old life is gone; a new life has begun.” 2 Corinthians 5:17

When I accepted Jesus’ offer to change me from the inside out, He worked on cleaning up my heart and attitude. I think and see things from a different perspective, not one of as much anxiety and fear but of hope and anticipation.

Our bathroom is new, but it won’t stay the way it looks now. It’ll become dirty, faucets may break, tiles may crack, glass may shatter.

But God’s workmanship changes us for eternity. He makes everything new.

And it doesn’t require saving up before we get it.