Plain Old Sock

     In virtually every home across America regardless of economic status or ethnicity. Whether young or old, hipster or redneck there is a basket of these somewhere near but not near enough to match. The basket of “Plain old socks”.

     The problem I have faced and I can almost guarantee you have too, is that as plain as one old sock might be, somehow there are 30 other Plain old socks just slightly different. There is a long white sock. A short white sock. A crew cut white sock. A yellow toe white sock. Wait I found a match, hold up! It has a hole! Ugh…soon the task is overwhelming and feels like a waste of time so the basket is abandoned.

     When I was little, growing up in a home of boys, there were dirty socks dropped everywhere. In frustration I would pick them up, throw them in the wash, and try to match them up. I even made up a game for matching socks. Each family member had a team (their own pile of socks) whoever got the most would win my imaginary game. It made matching plain old socks more enjoyable, but I never seemed to make a dent in the basket. 

     Some years ago when I had just started working in the ministry, I heard a story about a church in need of a new Senior Pastor. It was just a little sleepy church in a humble small town. Finally after several months the church board found a couple who seemed to fit the job description well. They were old enough to know something, with Senior Pastoral experience, and put together well.

     On a Sunday in August, they came to the morning service. Reverend Joe Smith gave an eloquent sermon to the little sleepy church. Immediately following the message there was a pitch-in potluck. 

     

     Pitch in potlucks could be either really tasty or really awful depending on who helped. In this case, the ladies prided themselves in home-cooked prize winning dishes. So as the congregation lined up in the narrow hall toward the gym, joyful conversation filled the air. The youngest in each clan buzzed by in their excitement to be first. Paternal arms darted out to correct little over zealous juniors as they gave their children “the look.” With dejection the little crew disbanded and stood, each next to their fathers obediently.

     Meanwhile the church ladies, a group of six, were busy stirring, pouring, whipping and forking the goodies into bowls as their teenage sons obediently but reluctantly set up the folding chairs around the folding tables. It seemed an eternity to wait with the smell of fresh hot mashed potatoes and chicken with noodles wafting down the narrow over populated hall way. There is a commotion in the gym that makes everyone suddenly silent, the Prayer. Pastor Smith gets the honor of praying over this meal. His words are strong but muffled as the hungry congregants mumble an “amen” here and a “oh Lord” there. Finally, there is silence… Pastor Smith is done and it’s time to eat.

     The Reverend Joe Smith had a little wife name Merta. She was brunette with a pretty little head and smart little dress. She said “How do you do” to their “howdy”. She quietly cut her green beans before delicately slipping them past her pink painted lips. Families came to greet them between green beans. As Merta began carefully slicing her noodles the crowd parted as she looked up.

     Leota Larson boldly advanced with a mission stamped on her bushy brow. Her hair was a curly mass of gray and dirty blonde. She stood 5’8 with black cane in hand, old powder blue polyester slacks and an ill fitted forest green valor blouse. Everyone moved out of the way, not out of respect as much as precaution. Even in this little community Leota was a mystery wrapped up in a conundrum.

     “Hello, My name is Leota Larson, and um… what is your name Mrs. Smith?” she huffed with an element of pride intermingled with a gasp for breath. It was hard to get around as quickly since her knee surgery.

     Still holding her butter knife carefully, either to continue her meticulous process of dicing noodles or to arm herself against this odd creature, she replied. “I am Merta Smith, thank you for asking. It is nice to meet you Leota.”

     With an unbrushed toothy grin that made Merta drop her knife, Leota continued, “Well Mrs. Smith I have been at this church since I was a baby. I have seen all them Pastor through all them years and this is what I got to tell you. We want our Pastors as plain as an old sock.”

     Silence clung to Merta for a moment as she took in Leota. In all her homeliness she still held a faint childlike beauty. Merta wondered if she had the courage to become a plain old sock. Looking around she observed families that looked average, bland like the neatly diced noodles on her plate. The gym its self was plain with white walls and cement floor. There were no sophisticated textures or character pieces. Most of the women in this room majored in cooking and raising their families. She was face to face with a room full of quiet good families in a sleepy little town. Her heart sunk in that moment as Leota eyed her like she was a magnificent Peacock at a petting zoo.

     Merta stammered “Isn’t that nice…everyone needs a sock.”

     Leota corrected, “A plain old sock ma’am, yep them Pastors did a great job.”

     Suddenly feeling an unpleasant need for the restroom Merta excused herself. Walking down the narrow hall she kept on going out to the car. Where she sat silently and cried. The Smiths later declined the Pastoral position, claiming it didn’t seem to be God’s will.

     

     No one really wants to be a “Plain old sock”. Plain old socks become forgotten. In truth, every person that has ever lived has a stamp on them for greatness. Poor Merta cried because she knew she didn’t have the strength to be a plain old sock. She had dreams in her heart bigger than a forgotten basket of discarded stockings. Even in the childish game of folding socks, the little girl me, dreamed of becoming something much greater than a laundress. God has put it in our hearts to dream big and refuse to settle for less.

     Is it wrong to live a quiet life in a little town? Of course not, it is our perspective that can limit us. So today I encourage us to look up to the limitless Creator God who makes beautiful things out of plain old socks.