Tidy is not my middle name. Neither is Good Packer, or even Moderate Folder. Thus, even my fresh clean clothes have more wrinkles than a Red Hat meeting. At home I pull out my iron and its board, set up, erase the wrinkles, and then debate whether or not to put them away when I know I'm going to haul them out again the next morning. I usually do.
I just left Dallas and am on my way to Kansas City, and there's always that moment of held breath when you open the hotel closet to see if they have an ironing board. These days they usually do, but the momentary question made me realize how thankful I am for irons. I can push the wrinkles right out of my morning. Even though it only works on clothes, the effect goes deeper. There's something about being crisp that feels like a fresh start.
But this morning a smooth, crisp shirt just wasn't doing the trick. It was a wrinkly morning inside my head. I tried at first to cajole myself out of it, to manage it, and then I finally remembered. I can't make the wrinkles go away no matter how hard I tug on them. But Jesus can. I stopped the fretting, read one of the cheerful psalms, and then told Big G just how I was feeling, what was going on in my head, had tied me in knots and wouldn't smooth out. Just the telling helped. And it opened my heart to Him again, and as faithful as he is, he ironed my morning.
It made me pause for a moment to enjoy, and wonder how I forget to ask him about stuff like this more often.
So, today I'm thankful for irons, boards, and Jesus. That his hands are big and strong and gentle enough to tug wrinkles out even of the delicate fabrics of life. And that he is willing to.