The Playhouse


  "Sunday afternoon will work for us.  Sure, we're excited about seeing your new place."  That was our response to Camea's invitation to check out her newly acquired Clinton address.  She thought it had a lot of perks - she was less than a mile from her campus job, the rental house was large with four generous bedrooms, and she would be dividing the rent with three other girls she had known during her college years.
  The directions led us down a shady street in a quiet neighborhood.  We spotted the Dobbs' van and pulled into the drive.  Camea met us at the door apologizing for the scraggly front yard.  It was obvious that the owner definitely hadn't competed for the yard of the month sign, but I quickly visualized what a weed-eater and my yellow trimmers could do.
  The neighbor's large oak accommodated both yards, and a healthy Bradford pear filled a major section of their rental yard.  The walkway pavers needed some adjustments, and the out-of-control azalea by the front  door screamed for the pruning shears.  I assured Camea that help was on the way.  Her yard wouldn't be scraggly for long!
  The modest house front camouflaged the spacious interior.  We were amazed at the living space - so much that Camea had arranged three separate but roomy seating areas in the den.  That room opened into the kitchen that was large enough to serve the MC football team!  A rambling island stretched across the center tiles and stopped several feet away from a sturdy ten-seater farm table.  The entire back of the kitchen was a wall of windows that looked out on a breezy porch and wandering back yard.
  That kitchen was an entertainer's dream.  A double oven and acres of cooking space had promises for food and fellowship, but the large floor tiles were the downside.  I couldn't get past them to enjoy the variety of amenities.  I squatted to look closer - then grabbed a wet sponge.  The tiles weren't worn or damaged - they were dirty!
  It wasn't my usual Sunday afternoon agenda, but the unsightly floor needed attention.  Tahya grabbed another scrubber and followed me.  CandyLee saw the real floor color and joined us after she laid aside her guitar.  She continued to sing as she scrubbed, bragging on the kitchen's great acoustics.
  I heard Othel ask Kevin if they had cable.  Camea answered and told them the girls hadn't connected it but might later.  Othel stared at the blank screen and helpless remote.  A wave of pity crossed his countenance.
  I located a sponge mop and gave the tiles a real scrub.  Camea couldn't believe it.  They had a new floor!  I was celebrating the fact that we might have saved them from some rare disease hibernating in the discolored tiles.
  As we gathered our things to leave, Camea thanked us again and said she was following us out to run by the grocery.  Their new quarters were settled enough to host a party, and she was inviting her youth group to come to their house after church.  "They're high school age and are looking for places to go, and I want to disciple as many as possible."
  I felt like rinsing the mop and giving my heart a good scrub.  My big concern had been a clean kitchen floor for hygiene reasons.  CandyLee was reveling in the acoustics, Othel was concerned about their being stranded from the news networks, and her parents were probably considering the safety of the neighborhood.  Camea saw their house as a meeting place to steer young people toward Jesus.
  As we pulled out of their driveway, I thanked God for Camea's new home and her passion to disciple.  Suddenly their scraggly yard was no longer a concern for me; it was my scraggly heart.



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