Construction Zones

Even if I didn’t give it a second look, the flash of passing a construction site slow moves an image of raw unfinished potential, it almost always spurns in me a momentary imagination high. Like most imagination rushes it’s tied to a memory tag. My electrical engineer dad built. I never discovered what he couldn’t build; maybe the pond he had some work friend come out and dig out with his huge bulldoze which turned out to be an epic failure, it could never keep much water. It turned into a glorified mosquito red-light district with a frog-chorus for a musical background; so much for the enchanting family pond for summer rows and swinging ropes. One of my dad’s home projects was an aluminum-sheeted barn, several of his work projects included radio and television stations. Incongruity he never finished the closets inside the house. Considering it part of our education, he regularly would take as along to help. I measured the earth-round, table-sawed carefully, mixed cement till I was a gritty-gray, wobbled on roofs (I’m a heights non-maverick) hammered my thumb into a purple puddles, sneezed and scratched on pink beds of insulation in hot lofts and jittery played with all kinds of electrical boxes and wires and yes, got unforgettably electrocuted. Basically, I was just a plain-gofer down-on dirt and high on ladders and jibs. My current place-of-the-pillow has had a junk yard of sorts across the road from me. Today they finished leveling of the soil after carrying away the last of the ‘junk’ who knows where. I found it sort of sad—though I had joked about the hood effect it created for our place, I still found it an intriguing place akin to the construction pull and wished it a whimsical goodbye by standing still for a moment of silence while walking by earlier. Out of nowhere, I suddenly wondered at my grace toward unfinished projects and eye-sore liter when compared to the frustration, way too often voiced aloud, with people. After all, aren’t we all just unfinished projects? My personality dictates that I pick up on potential within people and I do, but lately I’ve experienced more internal exasperation and downright anger toward certain people’s traits, habits, actions, personality—you name it. I’ve caught myself in moments of pure tirades and have felt unkindly toward myself though honestly not unmixed with a stinking self-righteousness. My memorial junk yard moment transitioned a spirit-call to extended graciousness toward all of us unfinished projects that we are—including me. My paints is still wet went the lyrics of a childhood song I vaguely recall. My paint is still wet…glaringly wet.
“And I am sure of this, that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.” Philippians 1:6