The Season of Socks!
My quirky daughter loves and collect socks. While I can think of many more collectible items, she loves them equally, and the more unmatched the better. One of her favorite stores is littlemismatched.com– a colorful wonder-world of loony yet loveable “unmatchfulness”. Although Jenyn takes unmatched socks to an extreme; her socks neither match in any way, nor do they match her outfit. And yet it works for her as she is one of a kind, and like her mom, marches to the beat of her own sonic drum.
I thought of socks during a discussion with my Bible study group about all the ways Christians can get misdirected. In typical fashion, I started rambling away about the Cycle of Socks, while everyone looked at me in a “are you SURE you took your Bipolar meds today?” fashion. But in true Lori style, I was able to pull it off as a quirky metaphor.
Everyone is mystified by how socks are lost “in the wash”. There is no mystery at all! Just look at all the ways they can get lost before even going into the washer. They have to go from your foot–to the basket–to the washer–to the dryer–to the basket–to the drawer–and back to your foot. Dangers abound in this chaotic cycle.
I just found a baby sock that had apparently been stuck in the side of my front loading washer for probably about 8 years. I found it because my washer just didn’t smell very good, so I got the washer cleaner (BTW: I find a cleaner to clean something that cleans to be very funny), and while scrubbing the rubber face, I found a little, scoured, moldy sock from young toddler days. My eyes teared up a bit, looking at the huge socks that my tweens now wear, and that sock, in all its’ icky mold, was a precious reminder of little feet. Yup, I am sad, sick and slightly demented to hold affection for something so completely disgusting. In honor of socks everywhere, I wrote this humorous “poem”, moral included.
A sock I am, tough yet frail!
Paired with my identical twin.
A swift life that quickly fails;
holes and dirt seek their way in.
Prized in cold, rejected in heat
Cradling the foot’s tender sole,
sometimes sour, sometimes sweet
yet discarded when I spring a hole.
Rejected, now unacceptable to feet,
I’m often lost, hidden from sight.
Away from my pair, our sadness shared,
lonely and alone, filled with cold fright.
Our masters lose us here and there,
an irritation that makes them grumpy.
But when found, the happy moment shared!
We return to the fold together again.
We often are abused without care,
growing dingy, worn and lumpy.
We try to do our base duty well
but being a sock is just pure hell.
And one day we know it will be the end.
I’m a sock I am with a tale to tell,
although I know you little care.
You make fun of my stinky smell,
then toss me into an angry sea;
I’m smacked ‘round with water shared
only to leave a wrinkled version of me.
Spun round and round in a drying mound;
Dizzy, I can’t wait for the beeping sound.
I’m in prison, will I ever be free?
Dumped and sorted into colors and hues;
depressed, often my mate cannot be found.
Are you crazy? I go into that smell?
I will surely be crushed in that snugly shell;
locked tightly between foot and shoe.
I think your stink would overcome you too!
What’s an immovable object to do?
Job done, I am ripped off with haste
then discarded onto the ground,
like all the other clothing waste.
If I’m loved, I get into the basket.
If not, I’m shoved in places dark and dreary;
eventually found, thrown into a casket.
You cannot imagine a life this weary
with no hope for a brighter day.
It is my hoped for theory:
my circular life will fade away.
Sometimes I think of life as a sock.
Unappreciated with no sight in end.
But with my faith in Jesus as my rock
He will always heal my soul’s rend.
And when my spirit, in sadness locked,
He is the ultimate and permanent mend.