Cleaning potato starch off the ceiling requires agility, flexibility, and a sense of humor. If you take too long, it dries, which demands an Olympic level of endurance.
You ask me how I know this. Let me tell you.
I had almost no cooking skills at eleven years of age. I thought Mom did a fabulous job of feeding the family on her own, and I preferred spending my time filling journals with words. However, in one of the more mature moments of those awkward pre-teen years, I realized how hard Mom worked, and I wanted to bless her by creating a culinary surprise. My lack of experience limited the menu options, but I had watched Mom prepare mashed potatoes nearly every Sunday of my life, and it looked easier than a box of mac-and-cheese.
I pulled out a pot, peeled four potatoes, plugged in Mom’s electric hand mixer, powered it up, and proceeded to pulverize the starchy orbs. I ferociously attacked those raw potatoes until the mixer screamed in protest. “Maybe I need to cut them into smaller pieces first,” I thought.
My second attempt proved even less effective than the first. With the potatoes cut into bite-sized chunks, the mixer snatched them up and shot them out of the pot, flinging bits of pasty garden goodness into all corners of our kitchen. The pieces still in the pot began to crumble, and just when I thought a few were successfully smashed, I noticed the pot was nearly empty.
Defeated, I stepped back and surveyed my handiwork. Potato peels littered the countertop, and creamy white potato splatters adorned the cabinets like sparkle-glue fake snow on Christmas cards.
Do you know what stalactites are? Those icicle-shaped deposits that line the floors and ceilings of a cave? Yeah. Imagine that in your kitchen, but with potatoes.
Potato. On the ceiling.
So, I stood there in the middle of this home-turned-potato-cave, stunned by the disaster my attempted good deed created and wondering how on earth I could clean up the impossible mess. And that’s when Mom walked in.
I wish I could tell you that Mom saw me trembling and ashamed and graciously wrapped me in her arms and told me she loved me even though I destroyed her domain. That would make a convenient illustration of the love of our heavenly Father for his imperfect children. But I can’t tell you that because that’s not what happened.
After scanning the work of my hands from ceiling to floor and everything in between, Mom burst into uncontrollable laughter. With tears of relief stinging my eyes, I dipped a dishcloth into the sink of soapy water Mom had prepared and followed her around the kitchen as she helped clean up my mess.
Maybe my story is a good reflection on gospel grace, after all.
