Horseshoes and Poop Chips.

There used to be a time when the only socks I wore were the ones I took on runs with me. My feet used to frolic freely in flip flops, toes dancing in the sun. Now I find myself satisfying the insatiable appetite of the dryer, as it eats half of every pair of socks I own. I wear two, sometimes three, pairs of socks on a daily basis here in Oregon. My toes are pasty, as is the rest of my body. So long sunny Santa Barbara. Hello cold, dark, sad little Antelope.

I’ve reached a lull. A definite lull. We’ve had our two short, too consecutive holiday breaks and now we’re back at camp with not much to look forward to. “Looking forward to” is an expression often used as a means of demonstrating excitement, anticipation, so in that sense there’s nothing really to look forward to. Unless of course, I could dig deep into the depths of my soul and muster up some excitement, some enjoyment, something other than the egregious emotions that live in me regarding all that is DEEP CLEANING. Have you ever cleaned anything deeply in your entire life?

My deep cleaning tasks of the past couple days involve, but are certainly not limited to:

1)Pac-vacing creatures. Yes, creatures. There are assorted stuffed animals displayed throughout camp. Not cuddly ones on beds. Menacing ones that were once living that now hang lifeless on walls. And I vacuumed their faces, their ears, their fur. Disturbing huh?

2)Removing “poop chips” from inside copious amounts of toilet bowls. Sonia coined the term “poop chips” as we knelt in neighboring stalls, laughing at the ludicrosity of our situation. There we were, cradling the toilet as if intoxicated, and we were indeed intoxicated, on the infamous “1/2 pink,” the only chemical strong enough to eat through toilet bowl rings. Tangential. There we were, cradling the toilet bowl, pumice stone clenched in hand, scratching away at the fecal matter of some nameless faceless human being. There’s nothing to do but laugh. Or cry. But we try and refrain from the latter.

3) Steel shining the kick plates on the cabin room doors. Steel shine the kick plates. Nothing but the best in YoungLife. If you’re like me and aren’t aware of what a kick plate is, I’ll enlighten you. There are steel plates that are screwed to the bottom of doors. Guessing by the name, they’re meant for kicking. I’m not really sure what their purpose is, aside from getting scuffed up when they’re kicked. Heaven forbid someone should kick a door without a kick plate. Your foot might fall off? Anyway, I steel shined the kick plates. I knelt on the ground and sprayed “liquid luster” and wiped in a circular motion until those kick plates shone like new. Like new, until someone utilizes that kick plate to its utmost ability…and kicks it.

4)De-bunked and re-bunked approximately 180 beds. By de-bunking, I pulled the mattresses off. By re-bunking, I put the mattresses back on. I’ve yet to figure out the exact reasoning behind this physically taxing task, but I do what I’m told and I did. So I took all the mattresses off. “Purpled” them (Purple is another word for disinfect here in Canyonland). And placed clean, clean being an understatement, mattress pads on them, and then tossed them back in their bunky home. I call clean an understatement for the mattress pads because we wash them, but no amount of washing could free them from the dirty fuzzy balls that live on them. Putting a mattress pad on is a simple painless task. Putting 180 mattress pads on is uncomfortable. By the end of the monotony my fingertips were raw and tingly. Let’s just say it was a magical encounter. Magical being a snide and sarcastic overstatement.

5) I “oranged” horseshoes. You had to go back and read that one again huh? Orange is another word for Pledge, or 409, or basically any sort of surface cleaner…wood, formica, iron, plastic, porcelain…you name it, we orange it. The horseshoes are a very creative, very decorative way of hanging towels in the bathrooms. I dusted the crevices of horseshoes that live in bathrooms. Another magical encounter.

Those are my top 5. The others didn’t make the cut. They’re hanging out with the carpet scum and the urinal algae, sobbing in the corner.

Needless to say, but I’ll say it anyway, deep cleaning is arduous. It’s tedious. It’s draining and defeating. Deep cleaning will wear away at your soul. It will wreak havoc on your body. It’s ruthless, and endless, and seemingly useless. Everything just gets dirty again.

So what’s the use?

Well this is where God’s sense of humor comes in. He teaches me through cardboardy puzzles. Why wouldn’t he teach me through poop chips and creature cobwebs? We lady interns clean buildings that will inevitably get dirty again just hours after we clean them. We worldly humans commit sins that the Lord washes away, sins we will inevitably commit just hours after we’ve begged forgiveness.

I attempt to deep clean buildings as the Lord takes a stab at deep cleaning my heart.

I just met with my mentor, Lisa, again a couple days ago. And man is she something. Something pretty divinely placed in my life.

She has lengthy experience in counseling children of addicts.

So this last meeting, she ripped my eyes open, and she ripped my heart open, too.

So in case you weren’t aware, addiction runs rampant through my immediate family. My mom is a meth addict. My step dad is an alcoholic. My brother is a pothead. Two of my aunt’s have been strung out on meth and heroine. My grandma was a chain smoking closet alcoholic. And I wouldn’t be surprised if my bio dad is addicted to painkillers.

As you can see, addiction is on a rampage, etching it’s name into my veins.

Addiction is hereditary. It’s genetic. It’s passed on from generation to generation. Therefore, I am at a genetic disposition. An incredibly unfortunate disposition.

I have to preface the next statement by saying that Lisa told me she can safely say that I am unlike anyone she has ever encountered before. Which was baffling and encouraging.

She then followed that comment with the words, “you’re an addict.”

Come again?

I’m shaking just remembering the encounter. I can safely say that those words rocked my world. And not in a good way.

But I needed to hear them.

I’m not an addict in the conventional sense of the word. I’m not addicted to substances. I’m addicted to perceptions. I spend 2/3 of my day consumed by what people think of me. I refrain from speaking in groups. I refrain from praying out loud. I write letters for fear of audibly making a fool of myself on the phone or in person. I look myself in the mirror countless times a day trying to convince myself that I’m beautiful. That I’m beautiful. Beautiful to who? Perceptions. They’ll get ya. They got me.

The whole cause and effect law of life is a pretty funny thing. As the Lord continues to unveil this darkness in my life, I can immediately pin the blame on someone else. There is a cause and there is an effect. I can try and fault my parents for neglecting me as a kid. For never asking me what I felt about things or telling me that my opinion mattered. I could blame them for instilling fear in me that I still live with today. I should. I would. I could. But I’m not going to, because as much as I’d like to have the sweet and savory taste of revenge lingering in my mouth, that would allow Satan a foothold. So instead, I put on my God glasses and see all sin the same. Their sin is my sin and I know for sure I won’t be the first one to chuck a stone.

So I try and picture the Lord, kneeling at the base of my heart. He’s armed with a toothbrush and a pumice stone, scraping, scrubbing, wiping away the grimy build-up. It’s ludicrous. It’s ridiculous. It’s absurd and insane. But it’s necessary. And so I tilt my head back and laugh. Laugh to keep from crying.

God give me strength.