What a Garden Shed Taught Me About Grace

For the past several Fridays I have been up helping my parents re-side their garden shed. None of us have ever really done anything with siding before, but we’re learning–with a little help from YouTube and a whole lot of trial and error. 
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This past Friday we began work on the doors of the shed. Though none of us said a word about it, I could tell we were all dreading this part of the process just a little. First there was lifting the plywood sheets–heavy enough on their own. Then there was the pressure to get the measurements “just right.” You know the old saying, “measure twice, cut once?” Yeah, well, we measured about fifteen times before cutting each behemoth door. Then there was moving it to the backyard, then there was trimming it out in the PVC board, then there were the J-channels, and the hinges, and then hanging the stinking thing. Oh, and did I mention that our cracker jack team was composed of my mom–just under 80 years old, my dad, firmly in his 70s, and me–and, as luck would have it, there wasn’t a good pair of knees among us?

When the dust settled on our efforts this past Friday, we had one door mostly done–not exactly the progress I had hoped. What we completed wasn’t perfect in the least. It wasn’t bad–it just wasn’t great. It would be easy to focus on those imperfections–how the door isn’t hung quite right, how our work area is somewhat messy, how the J-channel doesn’t always look as nice in the corners despite how hard we tried. All valid concerns–really.

But when I look at pictures like the one above, I don’t just see those mishaps. I can still see my dad laying on the ground with a block of wood and a crowbar lifting the door–despite the fact that he is currently using a cane due to a recent meniscus tear. I see mom–hair just done at the beauty shop that morning, her nails freshly painted–trying to mark where the hinges go so that I can pre-drill the holes. I see the board I threw to the ground in frustration when the door began to fall into the shed and I strained my elbow trying to catch it on my own. I hear the conversations we had as the wind blew through the trees, my dad’s instructions as he taught me to use a new tool in a different way, and I recall how my mom was always concerned that we were all staying hydrated and taking breaks as needed. I see that picture and I’m proud that my parents and I–despite our lack of experience–have been willing to try something new, to rely on each other, and to learn from one another along the way. 

It turns out, the doors of a garden shed can teach you a lot about grace. Not the Hobby Lobby kind of grace, wrapped in potpourri and Bible verses, but the kind that shows up in sunburned skin, imperfect cuts, mismatched screws, and shared laughter in the middle of the mess.

This shed project has in no way shape, or form been “Pinterest-perfect.” It hasn’t been fast. It hasn’t been painless. But is has been absolutely FULL–full of small, sacred moments of trying…together.
Our lives are so often like this–not clean or polished, but simply built out of what we have, with the people who show up, and a whole lot of making do.

Sure, it would be easy to only see the flaws, to focus on what’s crooked or not quite level. But grace says: Look again. Grace says: There’s more to the story than precision. As it turns out, scripture says something like that too.

In 2 Corinthians 12, Paul or his followers (we’re not sure that 2 Corinthians is actually Paul’s work) says something that has always stayed with me: “My grace is enough for you, because power is made perfect in weakness.” (CEB)

I used to think that was about hiding the cracks with some made-up, painted-on brand of  holiness. But now, I think it means the holy is found in the cracks—in the shaky hands holding up the door, in the misaligned corners, in the exhausted but stubborn commitment to keep going. That’s where grace lives.

Grace is Dad on the ground with the crowbar. Grace is Mom balancing a door with beautifully done hair and painted nails. Grace is trying again the next Friday, and the one after that, because the work matters—but the being together matters even more.

So no, the door and the shed aren’t perfect. But, then again, neither are we. And yet here we are: Building something with our own hands, piece by piece, day by day. Learning as we go. Trusting that it’s enough.
And I wonder if that is somehow the most honest, beautiful, life we can hope to build? Not one hell-bent on perfection, but on participation. Not centered in mastery, but memory-making. Not about creating flawless doors, but open ones that allow whosoever to enter in.

So this week, my friends, maybe our pursuit of perfection can take a back seat to making memories and beautiful, frustrating, serious-but-not-so-serious mistakes together. And maybe grace will meet us there once more.

On the journey with you,
Pr. Melissa

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