Sock Lore

I find myself turning various components of life inside-out a lot these days, sort of like you do when taking socks out of the dryer. Hmmmm, this one is right-side-out, this one wrong-side-out, and these two go together – and here’s a too-far-gone pair that need to be thrown out. The other one – well, it doesn’t have a mate, not in this load, at least. The runaway could be still in the hamper, or under the bed, or who knows where…or it may never show up, having been swallowed by the Washing Machine Sock Gremlin. Oooooh, those missing ones. I’d like to wring their little hiding-from-me necks, if socks have necks.

This era of my life also seems punctuated with on-the-go sock-jogging lessons that are teaching me about completeness – or in other terms, redemption. They take me to new heights and depths to hike along trails in valleys and on mountaintops. I cower and soar. I fear and trust. I hurt and heal. I stumble and run. I hide and explore. I wear mis-matched socks and no socks at all. It is quite the hike.

In all of this, there is no such thing as status quo anymore, or predictable normalcy. That’s not only okay, but also probably the preferred way to live…hanging by a thread, on the edge, being okay with those flimsy little footee-hose-thingys you use when you try on new shoes that barely even cover your toes. Maybe this has something to do with The Goal: humility and dependence and childlikeness before an almighty and sovereign God.

And oh yes…control and stability (control-top pantyhose) are highly overrated – downright unnecessary, in fact. Imperfect socks are fine in the presence of the living God. He knows all about socks, HIS SOCKS, and He loves ‘em all just as they are.

As I continue to pore over yesterday’s encounters at the picnic, and several more today with people at church, I’m aware of so many whopper-jawed, raveling-at-the-seams, threadbare, dirty socks. Peoples’ insides are showing through some pretty gaping holes OR their outsides appear to be deceptively snazzy as a cover-up. Still, the holes are there. Some are doing the loner I-am-an-island-thing (the lone sock syndrome) OR they’re matched with people who aren’t encouraging them (the mis-match). Others want to get busy and walk/run but are stymied for one reason or another. A few just plain stink.

I also recognize quite a few are in various stages of rescue/deliverance/recovery/salvation/redemption. We’re all in process, so to speak – in the process of dealing with our socks. It is encouraging and hopeful to see and hear testimonies from those who are willing to go to God - the Sock-Sorter-Outer – those who expect Him to repair and wash their cruddy ones, and turn them in and/or out – REDEEM them. I love hearing about their sock-pile victories.

The thing is, I can be compulsive about sock-sorting - impatient and short-fused, frustrated and overwhelmed, and unwilling to wait on God. And yet listening and waiting are integral to the life of faith. I cannot respond to Him (which leads me to participate in daily-and-hourly sock-redemption) if I don’t first wait/listen for His voice. And that can take time.

I can’t stand it when one sock is missing. I also have a way of wearing geriatric socks until their elasticity is gone and only fragile threads hold together the heels. It’s like I’m joined-at-the-hip (oops, or the ankle) with my socks. Better to be willing to LET GO of them (as representatives of the security blankets I dream up for myself) and receive the ever-emerging sock wardrobe God has for me.

So there you have it, the weakest, most disorganized and overstated SOCK LORE analogy you’ll ever read in your life.