That stain, again!

On a rotating basis, the clergy of Concord contribute articles to the town's weekly, The Concord Journal. As my entry this week I revised a post from my blog which appeared here in September 2007. Since this is a revision and many readers have joined us long since last September, I offer it again.

My SiteMeter reports tell me when readers are referred here from Google searches and the reports also indicate the search words. One of the most frequent ways that new readers land here is when their searches include the words "ink, spot, shirt." I know they're looking for helpful hints on getting those pesky spots out of their pockets. What they find here, however, is acceptance of the stain and a reflection on that...

Out, damned spot! Out, I say!

So, this is the point I've reached in my life.

Getting ready to go out to eat, I put on a fresh shirt and as I buttoned it I noticed an ink stain in the corner of the pocket. It was smaller than the size of a dime - but there it was. The shirt was fresh from the cleaners so I knew this stain had staying power. It might eventually fade some but its shadow world likely survive.

I immediately unbuttoned the shirt and took it off but as I did I realized how much of that shirt was in good shape: both arms, the starched collar, cuffs, most of the front and all of the back - and there wasn’t a button missing on this button-down shirt. In fact, 99.5% of this garment was in great shape. There was just that little stain...

I’d heard once that when wearing such a shirt it’s best to keep a pen in your pocket because folks like to be helpful and point out that you have a leaky pen. It seems that a leaky pen is a forgivable offense and more acceptable than the resulting stained pocket.

After a few moments of deliberation and after wishing that the ink blotch could have been in the shirt’s armpit, I decided the shirt was worthy of wear and put it back on.

And I went out to eat. And I had a nice meal. And I came home without ever having given a second thought to that stain. Nor did any of my dinner companions mention it.

There was a time when I would have thrown that shirt away on the spot, without a second thought. So, this is the point I have reached in my life: I can wear a shirt with an ink-stained pocket and not worry about it.

It's a good thing to have arrived in this place. I’m glad to be here.

I might even wear that shirt with the black pants I had on when I slipped in church and slid on my knee across the hardwood floor, "burning" a quarter size sheen into the material. I've been wearing those pants for a while so I guess advancing to the level of the stained shirt pocket was inevitable.

Why is it that we think of a small stain on an otherwise fine piece of clothing as a reason not to wear that garment anymore - even as a reason to discard it? Why are we so impatient with such a small imperfection in an otherwise fine shirt or pair of pants, a dress or blouse, a skirt or tie?

Then again, we're sometimes like that with each other, aren't we? The smallest imperfections in others may blind us to the worth of the whole person, our eye constantly drawn to the stain, the fault, the quirk - as if that's all there was to be known. In the worst of situations, we may even discard a person from our social wardrobe as if throwing away a stained blouse.

It was Thoreau who wrote, “Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.” Truth be told, we often buy new clothes because the old ones have a stain or a small tear that might be sewn. We are part of a culture whose castoff clothing would be haute couture for most of the world’s people. While folding my laundry a few days ago I wondered if it might be sinful to be so careful about folding my T-shirts when the morning paper was reporting on Myanmar. Thoreau’s words deserve more than a cursory glance.

Still, I’m pleased to have come to a point where I can wear my shirt with the stained pocket and my pants with the shiny spot. Perhaps I'll find myself worrying less about what’s on the outside and more about what’s on the inside. I hope so. Perhaps I’ll focus less on the imperfections of others. I hope so. Perhaps I’ll find a way to help clothe the survivors of the disaster in Burma. I hope so.

Perhaps these old clothes will make more of a man of me. Then, in my imperfect shirt and floor-burned pants, I might find myself dressed for real success.

I hope so.

- The Concord Journal, May 15, 2008 Voices of Faith



-ConcordPastor

"Out, damned spot! Out, I say!"

So, this is the point I've reached in my life.

Getting ready to go out to eat a few nights ago, I put on a fresh shirt and as I buttoned it I noticed an ink stain in the corner of the pocket. It was smaller than the size of a dime - but there it was. And this was a shirt fresh from the cleaners so I knew this stain had staying power and while it might eventually fade some, its shadow would be with me for a while.

I unbuttoned the shirt and took it off and as I did I became aware of how much of that shirt was in perfect shape. There was just that little stain...

After less than a minute's deliberation, I decided that most of the shirt was still worth wearing and although I wished the ink blot could have been in the shirt's armpit, I put it back on. And I went out to eat. And I had a nice meal. And I came home again without ever having given a second thought to that stain.

There was a time when I would have thrown that shirt away on the spot, without a second thought... So, this is the point I have reached in my life: I can wear a shirt with a stained pocket and not worry about it. It's a good thing to have arrived in this place.

In searching for the graphic for this post, I came across a hint from a guy who, when he has a similar stain, just puts a pen in the pocket and waits for folks not to advise him of the stain but to warn him about the problem of a leaky pen. It seems in men's fashion, leaky pens are more acceptable than stained shirt pockets. A leaky pen is a forgivable offense.

But I'm not going to put a pen in the pocket next time I wear that shirt. I might even wear it with the black pants I had on when I slipped in church and slid on my knee across the hardwood floor, "burning" a quarter size sheen into the material. I've been wearing those pants for over a year so I guess advancing to the stained pocket level was inevitable.

Why is it that we think of a small stain on an otherwise fine piece of clothing as a reason not to wear that garment anymore - even as a reason to discard it? Why are we so impatient with such a small imperfection in an otherwise fine shirt or pair of pants, a dress or blouse, a skirt or tie?

Then again, we're sometimes like that with each other, aren't we? The smallest imperfections in others may blind us to the worth of the whole person, our eye constantly drawn to the stain, the fault, the quirk - as if that's all there was to be known.

Now that I'm wearing this shirt and these pants, perhaps I'll find myself less focused on the imperfections of others. I hope so. Perhaps these old clothes will make more of a man of me. Then, in my stained shirt and floor-burned pants, perhaps I'll really be dressed for success.