The Hardware Store

 One day I went to a hardware store, not one of those gigantic ones that have everything … if you could only find it, but a small store in the middle of the two-block-long ‘downtown’ of a country town.  I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but was in fact killing a little time.  I had a prescription being filled at the pharmacy next door, also a small creation that no doubt will one day be replaced by one of those large stores that have things like seasonal decorations, books and movies for you to shop through while you wait.  But since the current pharmacy had twice as much footage behind the counter than in front, I had wandered over to the hardware store to look around.

Upon entering the store the most amazing thing happened ... the clerk behind the counter smiled and said, “Hi.” 

Now, I don’t know how you would have reacted, but I was surprised.  The places I shop at there isn’t a clerk to be seen and if you do need help you have to hunt one down, unless you are lucky enough for there to be one of those buttons you can push and wait 20 minutes for someone to show up.  Anyway, I recovered quickly enough and responded in kind.  “Hello.”

“Can I help you find something?” the clerk continued.

Aha, he wants to sell something, I thought.  And indeed I thought that was the reason for his courtesy.  The car salesman approach to selling … or the ‘engage them in conversation before they can get off the lot’ technique.

“No, I’m actually just looking around until my prescription is filled.” I said, thinking this would let him know I wasn't interested in buying anything.

“I thought so,” the clerk said and smiled at me.  “Well, feel free to wander around or … if you feel like talking … I’d be pleased for the conversation.  It’s been a little slow today.”

“Oh, ok,” I said, finally understanding, and wandered out of the isle of nails towards the counter.  It was then that I noticed the yard of white fabric, two strips of paper with dried paint on them and two cans of open white paint sitting next to it.  I also became aware of a thumping noise that I hadn’t really noticed before.  “What are you doing?”  I asked.

“Mixing paint,” came the reply.  “I had a young lady come in yesterday who wanted me to match paint to this fabric, she’s due back later today to pick this up.”

I felt the frown cross my brow, and couldn’t stop the question that popped into my head from sliding out my mouth.  “But, it’s white paint!  What is there to mix?”

The man looked at me with warm amusement.  “Indeed, I’m sure it looks like white paint to you,” he said with a smile and turned to grab a can off the shelf.  It was a fresh can of white paint, identical to the one on the counter.  He pulled the can that had just finished shaking and set the new can in the machine to stir and walked back over to the counter with the first can.  He set the can down and using a tool pried the lid off showing the paint inside.  “I just finished the last can for the young lady and need to test this one anyway.  But if you will give me a few minutes I’ll show you the difference between this paint and the other.”

“Ok,” I said suddenly curious and took a seat at one of the counter stools.

In the few minutes it took to shake the can the clerk and I had a wide ranging conversation that started with the weather and had gotten to politics when the machine shut off.  The man walked over to the machine and picked the can up and came back to the counter.  Putting the can down he picked up a tool and began to pry the lid off.

“Now, this can has already been mixed and isn’t really white anymore,” the man began pointing to the first can I’d seen him pull out of the mixing machine.  He picked up a clean paint brush, dipped it into the ‘mixed’ can and then spread the paint onto a strip of white paper on which he had written ‘tinted’.  Then taking another clean brush he repeated the process with the new can of white paint on a fresh strip of paper that was marked ‘true white’.  Finally he took an industrial looking hair dryer and waved it over the strips of paper for  a few minutes, making sure the two strips didn’t touch.  “There is nothing quite as exciting as watching paint dry,” he quipped when he stopped the dryer.

I smiled despite myself and then looked at the strips of paper.  “They still look the same,” I protested.

“Let’s step outside for a second,” the man said.  I followed him out into the bright sunlight and winced when I looked at the strips of paper.  “Now, look at these two and tell me which one hurts the most to look at.”

Trying to avoid wincing, I looked at the two strips of paint glowing in the sunlight.  Then it hit me … one of them did indeed hurt more!  The one marked ‘true white’ outshone the ‘tinted’ paint.  It was marginal, but under the light of the sun it was obvious to see.

“Wow,” I said in genuine amazement.  I had never understood the various shades of ‘white’, but now found that I could really see a difference.  “What makes the difference?”

“Just a small amount of black paint,” the man said walking back into the store.

After I’d said goodbye to the man and picked up my prescription I thought about what he had said.  Just a small amount of black paint had been enough to take some of the shine out of white paint.  Then it struck me, it was just the same with humans!

Just a small amount of sin was enough to take the shine out of us … and thanks to Adam all of us have more than a small amount of sin even as babies.  And just as it would be impossible to get the black paint out of the white paint, it is equally impossible for us to get the sin out of ourselves.  Which explains why God, in the form of Jesus, had to come down to earth and die for our sins.  Only the application of the blood could gloriously purge the sin and return us to our intended  ‘pre-Fall’ state! 

And one day God will use the Son test to see which of us shines bright enough for heaven.  And no matter how close to ‘white’ we may look under the normal light of life, once the light of the Son is shone on us the truth will come out and we will be judged.  Only those who have submitted to the application of Jesus’ blood will shine bright enough to be acceptable to the Father.

With this analogy running through my head, I went home.  Grateful for lessons learned in little hardware stores, where clerks aren’t too busy to be found.  And humbled once again by the debt owed to Jesus Christ, the Son of Man … and at least in this tale – Jesus Christ, Master Painter.

A Tuvell