The last time I painted the outside of my house, it took me a year-and-a-half to complete the project. Every two weeks I would scrape, prime and paint a twelve-foot section of the walls and trim. I started at the front of the house, the most visible part that the neighbors would see. Failure to complete the project would be hidden from their view.
Not so long ago, there was a another kind of wall, the notorious Berlin Wall, dividing Germany into two pieces.
The first time I crossed into East Germany, I entered through Checkpoint Charlie, the American military passage leading through that great, foreboding wall that split friends and family apart. Many from the East died while attempting to cross that monstrous concrete bulwark.
The second time I encountered the Wall, Communist East Germany was breathing its last. The Wall was being properly and deservedly defaced; it was ablaze with colorful paintings and slogans of soon-coming freedom. Incredulously, the demise of The Wall had become a celebration of life, an invitation of hope and of promise.
Walls have a purpose, whether good, or whether bad. I don’t always get to choose the walls in my life. But perhaps choosing how I paint them is the next best thing.