There are six people living in my little home. Six pair of feet to cover for seven days a week, especially in the winter months. In one week we can manage to dirty forty-two pair of socks. That's eighty-four individual socks. The individual number is important. I'll even tell you why.
I sat on my bed this morning with a laundry basket FULL of socks. They were mostly white socks, but a few colors were mixed in. I'm always grateful for the colors, they make matching socks so much easier.
Imagine this basket full of at least eighty-four individual socks (I say 'at least' because inevitably some have walked off leaving behind many that don't get to have a match). Some are for big feet, some are for slightly smaller feet. Some have the brand name printed along the toes, while others have darker shades along the heels. There are socks that will go up high on the leg, and those that love to snuggle your ankles. We have the special Daddy's socks, which are different from the boys', which are different from the girls', which are different from Mom's socks.
All in all, there are a whole lot of socks.
As I sorted these various feet coverings I began to wax philosophical (tends to happen when I've been in my head for too long), and it occurred to me that life really is like going through a basket chock full of socks.
All socks start their journey by coming out of a package. They are pristine. The whites are as white as they will ever be. Colors are vibrant. Patterns are clear. Even the threads are undamaged and identical socks can be doubled up with any that look just like it. We are much the same way.
Until, of course, the inevitable happens and someone puts their feet into the socks. Some are worn on the right foot, some on the left. Some are worn outside without shoes on, while others are constantly covered. At times these socks will go to scout camp, where I am convinced the dirt in these boy-concentrated places has a special bond that mixes so completely with the socks that it never, ever, EVER comes out, no matter what magical incantations I might employ to make said socks look clean. Then there are those times the socks are not turned right side out before they are washed (no matter how many times I tell them to please please please turn them right side out before putting them in their laundry hampers!), meaning the dirt, which sticks more to the outside then the inside, often remains on the outside. I do not understand the logic of this, seeing as how all the stinky from the inside of the sock is washed out even if the sock itself hasn't been turned inside out.
After months and months of being worn, and washed, and worn, and washed, and...you get the idea...socks start to look less than pristine. In our house they begin to get those annoying little balls that get bigger and bigger until you actually sit down to tear them off. Of course these annoying little balls are bits of your sock slowly fraying, thinning them out until you can actually see parts of your skin. Hopefully those parts of skin are beautiful, rather than dry and crackly.
Eventually even the most beloved sock gets holes in them. Back in the "good old days" people used to darn their socks. No, that doesn't mean they would shake their fists at it and say, "Darn you!" It means they would take thread and painstakingly attempt to fix those holes. We don't do that any more, for which I am grateful. I think my family would decide going sockless to be a beautiful thing if I made them wear the ones I attempted to darn.
If you're anything like my husband getting rid of something that has a few holes in it is tossing out the most comfortable item of clothing in the world. Those are always, in his own words, "MY FAVORITE!!!" Silly boy. Still, every sock eventually comes to the point where it has to go away. Sometimes because it is worn out, others times because gremlins crept into the laundry basket and stole unmatched pairs, and no matter how long you keep a hold of those single-but-unable-to-mingle items, the gremlins refuse to grow a conscience and return their matches. Then comes the day you finally get rid of the singles, only to do a more thorough cleaning of your room and find the match behind your dresser. You'd think by now I'd have learned to look there first.
Over time sorting similar socks even becomes difficult, because I try my best to sort socks into similar pair of dirtiness. I think I might OCD.
Believe it or not, life is often like this. Um, not like me having OCD, but like being a sock.
We are all born into this world coming from the same package - that is, heaven. Some of us look so much alike we could be interchangeable (though I don't recommend proving it!). We are vibrant, unmarked, clear, and whole.
Then life starts. We are placed into different families and circumstances that stretch us in different ways. We are taken through various experiences that make us more individual than we were at birth. Some of those experiences are pretty stinky, some leave marks we can't seem to get rid of, while others others allow us to live good, long lives filled with amazing memories. At times we believe our perfect match has been stolen, but then realize we were meant for another pairing. We may begin life with many friends with which we can be interchangeable, then over time we recognize there are only a few we really want to match with.
Some individuals wear out fast, but are fixed along the way, helping them to last longer. Others feel they are past fixing, or refuse to be fixed. The best people are those who have worn out their lives making the lives of others a bit more comfortable, who will be missed horribly when they are called home to their Maker.
Bet you can't wait until I come up with another thing life is like ;)
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