There are certain projects in life that seem to exist not so much to be completed as to remind us of our humanity. For some people it is writing a novel. For others it is learning the bagpipes. For many of us, it is cleaning the garage.
Every summer begins with noble intentions.
“This is the year,” we tell ourselves confidently. “By Labour Day that garage will be immaculate.”
By the middle of August, however, the garage has merely become a different arrangement of the same clutter. We have successfully moved three boxes from the left wall to the right wall, rediscovered a rake we were convinced had been stolen sometime during the Harper administration, and found enough half-used paint cans to redecorate a small principality.
Progress has certainly been made.
Just perhaps not visible to the naked eye.
Stephen Leacock would surely have appreciated the garage. It is one of those places where optimism repeatedly collides with reality, yet optimism stubbornly returns the following Saturday morning wearing work gloves and carrying a fresh roll of garbage bags.
Growing up on our family farm in southwestern Ontario, garages and machine sheds were places of constant activity. Tractors came and went. Tools disappeared with astonishing speed and somehow always reappeared exactly where no one had looked first. There was always a coffee can full of mysterious bolts that everyone insisted might be needed someday. Nobody knew what they belonged to anymore, but throwing them away felt almost immoral.
Farm garages have their own archaeology.
One layer tells the story of haying season. Another remembers the combine repair of 1978. Somewhere underneath everything lies the socket wrench everyone has been looking for since Easter.
And somehow, despite the apparent disorder, Dad could usually lay his hands on exactly what he needed.
I never quite learned that particular spiritual gift.
The older I become, the more I suspect that garages have something to teach us about grace.
We spend an astonishing amount of energy trying to convince ourselves that life must be perfectly organized before God can make good use of us.
“I’ll volunteer once things settle down.”
“I’ll pray more when life gets less hectic.”
“I’ll become the person God wants me to be after I’ve sorted everything out.”
The difficulty is that life never really gets sorted out.
There is always another project leaning against the wall.
Another responsibility waiting on the workbench.
Another unexpected expense tucked behind the lawn mower.
Another emotional cardboard box labelled “I’ll deal with this later.”
God, meanwhile, seems remarkably unconcerned.
Throughout Scripture, the Lord repeatedly calls people whose lives resemble garages in late August rather than magazine showrooms.
Abraham was still wandering.
Moses was still making excuses.
David carried regrets.
Peter possessed enthusiasm in quantities far exceeding wisdom.
Paul admitted he was still pressing on rather than having already arrived.
Not one of them waited until life became perfectly organized before God began working through them.
Grace has never demanded immaculate storage.
Perhaps that is because God specializes in seeing possibilities where we mostly notice clutter.
The old experience that seems useless becomes wisdom for someone else.
The painful chapter we would rather hide becomes the place from which compassion grows.
The forgotten gifts tucked away for years suddenly become exactly what another person needs.
The Holy Spirit has an extraordinary habit of making beautiful things out of what we assumed belonged in the discard pile.
Even Jesus spent much of his earthly ministry among lives that looked anything but tidy.
Fishermen with tangled nets.
Tax collectors with tangled consciences.
Families with tangled relationships.
Disciples with tangled understanding.
He never stood at the doorway saying, “I’ll come back once you’ve cleaned this place up.”
He simply walked in.
Perhaps that is why I have grown rather fond of garages that never quite get finished.
They remind me that life is always under construction.
There is always another corner to sweep.
Another shelf to straighten.
Another cobweb to remove.
And there is always another Saturday when we smile, put on the old work clothes once again, and give it another try.
The Christian life is rather like that.
Sanctification is less like unveiling a perfectly restored museum and more like steadily making room for grace to work among the wonderfully ordinary accumulation of a lifetime.
One shelf at a time.
One dusty corner at a time.
One small act of faithfulness at a time.
So if your garage is still a little untidy this August, take heart.
It may simply be reminding you of one of the deepest truths of the Gospel.
God has never waited for perfect order before moving in.
In fact, some of the finest renovations the Holy Spirit ever undertakes begin in places that looked far too cluttered to be holy.
And if, while cleaning, you happen to discover the missing screwdriver, the Christmas lights, and a lawn chair you forgot you owned…
Count that as an unexpected blessing.
Just don’t ask where the tape measure has gone.
That remains one of the Church’s enduring mysteries.
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Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
Thank you for loving us just as we are, not only as we hope someday to become. When our lives feel cluttered with unfinished tasks, old regrets, and worries tucked into forgotten corners, remind us that your grace is never discouraged by the mess.
Teach us to make room for your Spirit one small step at a time. Help us to trust that even the parts of our lives we would rather hide can become places where your mercy, healing, and purpose take root.
Give us patience with ourselves, generosity toward others, and the quiet confidence that you are always at work, even when progress seems slow.
And as we continue the holy work of becoming the people you created us to be, may we never forget that you entered our lives long before everything was in perfect order.
Through Jesus Christ, who is always making all things new.
Amen.