We have begun to refinish our front door. We are changing it from distressed yellowish wood (there must have been a bargain on this color a few years back because my neighborhood has several—and it matches very little) to a dark stain that will match the shutters and indoor flooring.
With this idea in mind, we began sanding at 8 a.m. Saturday morning (that’s after my DH made a run to Home Depot for supplies) and didn’t stop—except for a break for lunch—until late afternoon. By then our shoulders ached, our fingertips were sanded down, and hands tingled from the vibration of the electric sander. We were also coated in whitish yellow dust.
But we had finished sanding one side of the door.
It was one of those long days when I think of pioneers walking mile after mile and wondering when a mountain in the far distance is going to get any closer. I’d be working on one spot—barely 2 inches high—sanding away until the friction burned my fingers, and wonder how we were ever going to get the whole thing done. Ever.
And then, just when the hot afternoon sun had finally worked it’s way under the porch and was causing rivulets to run down our backs, we stepped back and realized we had covered the whole door. Twice.
And that’s how it is. One inch at a time, one step at a time, peeling one potato at a time or reading one book at a time to a child —eventually, the door gets sanded, the mountain is reached, the dinner is made and a child is raised.
Cherish the steps.
Because all too soon it’s time to start up that mountain, load the dishwasher, welcome a grandchild, or move on to the other side.
Of the door, that is.