My Month in a Bathroom

I've been unable to write for the past month, as I was busy in the bathroom.

On the road back to Iowa over Spring Break, Emily and I decided to do a quick bathroom remodel in our upstairs bathroom. We actually said and believed that - quick. We had no lofty goals; we were merely in it for functionality: a toilet that flushes consistently, tile that wasn't cracked, and a sink with room for soap. After making due for ten years with the secondary, second-class bathroom, we figured a fix-up would be low cost and low hassle. Tile, a toilet, and sink: how hard could it really be?

Not that hard, actually. But not that easy, either. Easy enough that it's finished now. Done. Mostly by me, a 36-year old without an official man-card and hands much more accustomed to keyboards and books than hammers and nails. It's amazing what one can learn from YouTube and a patient neighbor willing to teach. After a month of nights and weekends, this tiny 25 square foot space is like new. Or at least functioning.

I experienced a range of emotions during the project, which I'm sure many who have undertaken similar projects with similar levels of experience can attest to. The overconfidence of demolition came first. The momentum created by the ease and quick process of destruction is intoxicating and disorienting, leading one to actually believe they may be ahead of schedule. This is followed by a small dip of apprehension predicated on the knowledge that you have no knowledge and are paralyzed by the fear of beginning. But then, if you're fortunate, comes success. Sweet success. You do something for the first time. You create. You finish. You thump your chest, berating the project with derogatory epithets as if it, your opponent, had been defeated by your strength and moxie. You speak of your success, telling people about the project and the journey and how far you've come and how you, yes you, the one who nobody ever thought could, has indeed laid tile.

I was there. And it was sweet. Staring at the installed tile, the finishing touches having been completed in an adrenaline-packed flurry 30 minutes prior to dinner guests arriving, the swell of pride made me a believer. I could do this. I could be trusted with tools, and I would win. I had already won one battle. The war was at hand. Medals of valor, all around!

And this lasted for one day. One. Because after that one day, after the tile had settled and dried and cemented itself into permanence, I went to check on the project. I saw the flaws. All of them. They mocked me. They proclaimed their permanence. I knew I must stare at them and recognize their authority all my days in this house, and I sunk into a fog of dejection. I felt crushed under a mountain of despair. I ripped up my imagined man card.

My wife was there to pick up the pieces. My wife who understands me. My wife with the realistic home improvement expectations. In her wisdom, she laid it out there for me: "You know this isn't a sermon or a speech or a blog post, right? You can't spend hours pouring over every sentence, shaping it and revising it and re-revising it into submission. It doesn't work that way. Get over it." Ouch. She was right. A few weeks later, my imperfect, but pretty darn good for a renovation rookie bathroom is up and running.

This real-life story serves up many a metaphor. Pride cometh before the fall. Listen to your wife. Don't bite off more than you can chew. Or even Teddy Roosevelt's "the credit belongs to the man in the arena who strives, and errs, and falls short." Those all seem appropriate.

More so for me, though, was the realization of how much those tiny flaws in my home remodeling bothered me, how much I want to revise and refine and perfect them out of some sense of irreparable mark I was making on my home, and how few aspects of my real life with real consequence receive similar scrutiny. I almost never fixate on the inches, on the level, or on the cracks in my faith. Or in the way I use my time. Or in my relationships.

The bathroom flaws may never be recognized by guests, and that gives me comfort. But the same lack of recognition of the flaws in my spiritual house should not. If anything is worthy of intense scrutiny, it is that, visible to an audience or not.

So I go back to my real work now. I put down the power tools that I just learned to use and put away the mortar and grout and caulk. I collect my Menards leftovers and mistaken purchases and get my refund. I trade them in and scrutinize the flaws and mistakes I can work on and that do matter, and I roll up my sleeves.