White Paint

A glance at my watch told me it was only ten o’clock in the morning, but the perspiration trickling between my shoulder blades told me that the temperature was already approaching 90. They told us we were lucky: it had been 115 degrees in Martin, South Dakota, just the week before. Perched atop the little white church, the sun radiated off the asphalt shingles, and I was pretty sure I knew what 115 degrees felt like.

My daughter and I spent the week in Martin on a YouthWorks mission trip. The little town in western South Dakota, bordering a Native American reservation, struggled with alcoholism, unemployment, and racial tensions. Each week, 60–70 volunteers rolled into the local high school armed with water bottles, paintbrushes, and prayers. We were slated to spend two days painting and two days helping out with a children’s program at the city park. I was on my first mission trip and came to change their world.

Was I Making a Difference At All?

I guess I had come with visions of transforming weather-beaten homes in the housing projects into American suburbia—maybe they’d let me put in a white picket fence. Rather, here I was at this little white church. It actually looked pretty good. I mean, really good. The crew from the week before had already scraped and primed and had made quite a bit of progress with the first coat of white paint. My task was to climb up onto the entryway and finish the peak. From below, with the sun shining off it just right, you could see where the shiny new white paint ended and the dull primer started. Once I climbed onto the entryway roof, however, it was nearly impossible to see what needed to be done.

I started at the peak and moved down, trying to be somewhat systematic so I could remember where I had already been. I stroked, wiped the sweat out of my eyes, stroked, wished I had remembered my water bottle, stroked. Wait, had I already done this section? What about that eave? It looked pretty white—but was it shiny white or primer white? Oh, I’d just do it anyway. A second coat wouldn’t hurt. I stroked, swatted at a fly, stroked, blinked as a paint drip narrowly missed my squinting eyes, stroked. Was this what I had signed up for? Was I making a difference at all?

Resolution Reset

I crawled down off the roof, getting scratched by an overgrown evergreen bush on my way down. It was time for lunch. As I pulled out my soggy sandwich, I made a mental note to myself not to put fresh tomatoes on a sandwich that you prepare four hours before it will be eaten. The pastor and his family lived in a little house next to the little white church. His wife came out to visit with us as we ate our sack lunches. She seemed genuinely grateful for our help. In visiting with her, I learned that she had grown up as a missionary’s daughter and ended up marrying a pastor. Although she wasn’t in the jungles of Africa or smuggling Bibles into China, she too had chosen to be a missionary. She and her husband adopted a family of five Native American children, allowing them to stay together after they were taken from a mother who struggled with alcohol. Instead of choosing American suburbia, she chose to live in a little house next to a little white church in a town where life wasn’t always easy . . . and make a difference in the lives of five kids.

Lunch break was over, and I headed back up the ladder. It was even hotter than before, and I still couldn’t tell the difference between where I had been and where I needed to go. Somehow it seemed better, though. Just think what a fresh coat of paint would mean during the next hard rain (did it ever rain in this hot, dry town?). The driving snow of the next South Dakota blizzard wouldn’t find its way up and under the siding, only to melt and rot out the wood. I stroked, smiled at the stories of the girls from Michigan painting the east side, stroked, laughed at the youngest boy playing with his dog, and stroked. At the end of the day, my little bucket of white paint was empty once again, and that little white church was looking fine, if I did say so myself.

Painting with Hot Pink

The next day, we returned to the same place. Our next project was to tackle an old barn/garage on the back corner of the lot. It had once been dark green, but now the bare wood was exposed in as many places as there was old paint. We were to paint it a creamy beige with a pretty salmon trim. With my first strokes of the day, my spirits lifted. Now, this is what I came to do! Each brush stroke brought about a miraculous transformation. The dark, dingy surface was brightening up. We made up a crew of nine, more than half of whom were teenage girls. Like bees to honey, we swarmed about the exterior—some on ladders, some painting trim. It was kind of amazing, the amount of work that could be done in such a short amount of time. There was a lot more laughing that day, and even some singing! Though we could not finish the entire project, by the end of the day, we stood back and looked at our accomplishments with immense satisfaction.

It was an emotion-filled week. Hard work was interspersed by devotions, praise songs, and heart-wrenching testimonials. I had come there wanting to change their world; instead, they had changed mine. I’m not sure when it occurred to me, but it became clear that witnessing is a lot like using white paint. Sometimes you can see where you have affected things in doing the Lord’s work, but many times you cannot.

On Christian radio, you always hear stories where an evangelist sits down next to a troubled young woman on an airplane. In the two hours it takes to get from Minneapolis to Seattle, she has shared her life story, he has shared the entire message of the gospel, she bursts into tears, and her life is transformed. Talk about painting with hot pink! Or maybe it’s still white paint. Against the darkness of a soul without the light of Jesus, a little bit of hope makes a remarkable difference.

Ready with Roller - God Picks the Color

As much as I would love to make such a difference, I’d never seen that amazing transformation. I found myself wondering the same question I asked up on the roof of the little white church: Was I making a difference at all?

Thinking back on my own walk in the Christian faith, I recognized a point on that path where I was a lot like the little white church. I had a good coat of primer: I had always been taken to church and Sunday school and had been baptized and confirmed. And there was a pretty good start on my coat of white paint: we started attending church more regularly again once the kids reached Sunday school age. But like the little church, there were still spots where a good wind could drive the snow up under the siding. My beliefs were not all convictions, and rather than black or white, wrong or right, many issues were just varying shades of gray. I needed more white paint.

There was a mechanic who played a Christian radio station in his shop, the same one who didn’t even charge me a dime to find out my car’s issue was only loose spark plugs. I’m sure he’ll never know that I now listen to that station daily—white paint. There was the friend that suggested a Christian book series that centered on pioneer life. I thought I was reading Little House on the Prairie books for big people. White paint. Then there’s my mother. She carries a five-gallon pail of white paint. Whether she knows it or not, her faith spills over to all who know her—white paint.

I know I still have spots where the paint is thin, and, like the little white church, the paint will chip and peel without upkeep. For that reason, God places Christians among Christians with their little buckets of white paint to touch up where needed. No glaring transformations, just reassurance when faith is shaken, peace when times get tough, and hope when there seems no reason for it.

So now I pray for patience, for acceptance that I may never see the fruits of my witness, to be satisfied with applying primer—letting someone else put on the finishing coats. I pray for a willing spirit to carry my little bucket of white paint and weatherproof those around me from the storms that life throws at them. But you know, I still hope I get to use hot pink paint someday!

“I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God has been making it grow. So neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but only God, who makes things grow. The one who plants and the one who waters have one purpose, and they will each be rewarded according to their own labor. For we are co-workers in God’s service; you are God’s field, God’s building.” 

1 Corinthians 3:6–9 NIV

“Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send?

And who will go for us?” And I said, ‘Here am I. Send me!’”

Isaiah 6:8 NIV