We’re having sock pandemonium in our home. It’s not the usual dryer-eating-of-socks that has us at wit’s end. It’s that the three of us — husband, wife and growing-taller-by-the hour child — each wear nearly the same size socks.
Now, of course, I won’t put the purple peace-sign knee-hi’s destined for our girl’s sock drawer in my husband’s stash. Nor will his grey argyles find their way into my lingerie drawer. But athletic socks? Ah, there’s the challenge. They are white, nearly all the same size, and have identical Hanes, Adidas, Nike or generic Target logos.
Those whife puffs of cotton (pilled or frayed or new and fluffy) remind me of sheep. Often many are forlorn, without their mates, lost and not knowing which drawer or bedroom holds their herd. Yes, I tell myself. They are not really sheep, and I don’t have to connect this to something about sheep in the Bible. They are just SOCKS.
But the way my blog-writing mind works, I know these sheep, er socks, represent me. In the thrash of daily life, the ups and downs of school challenges, employment searches, an elderly parent’s health situation, even keeping the yard in a tolerable state so that neighbors won’t petition that we be run out of Dodge — it all makes me feel forlorn or at least pilled and frayed. I don’t like admitting that I am a sheep, a timid defenseless creature….it seems to shrink my intelligence and ability to be different. But I am not different from anyone else. I need a guiding Father, a comforting presence, a light to keep me on the path — even when I have no idea where the path is leading. He knows, however, and when I can turn it all over to Him (and not keep taking it back), those little missing pieces in my life tend to find their ways into the right drawers and the problems I can’t overcome can be tended and shepherded by the One who can handle it all.