We had black boogers for days.

It was our first house. A small, two-bedroom row house in an up-and-coming part of the city. Built in 1911, the plaster walls and ceilings had seen better days. The copper plumbing was all stolen, and some of the electrical was dangerously old knob and tube wiring (the stuff that burns houses down). But it was cheap, and I could see the potential.

That summer I worked my tail off to replace the kitchen, bathroom, and make at least one bedroom livable. Though I literally shocked myself more than once, and had to redo several things, I was learning a ton. My grandpa came down weekly to give me a hand. My dad showed up to lend a hand when big jobs were needed to be tackled. And I had several friends that I probably still owe pizza to.

But there was one job I never want to do again. That fateful July day, full of humidity, we took shovels to the 11-foot ceilings and some of the walls and started tearing off the plaster. If you have ever torn out plaster ceilings, you know what it’s like. And if you haven’t – don’t. The century old plaster dust hangs in the air, intermixed with decades of bugs, mouse droppings, and lead paint chips. The horse hair embedded cement-like coating falls in crumbles. It is heavy. And then you have to remove the thin lathe boards it was smeared onto. You can only fill trash bags so full before they start ripping from the weight. It is nasty, nasty business that covers you with grime that is not removed by just a single shower. Its in your hair, your fingernails, and your sinuses. And all of this so that we could avoid it all collapsing on us while we slept.

It’s amazing none of us ended up with a crazy disease or something.

Now 15 years later, I am tearing out a different kind of plaster. As parents, it is inevitably the case that we cannot give our children everything they need. If we could, they probably wouldn’t need Jesus. And so it is also inevitable that as kids ourselves, we did not get everything we needed. Between those gaps and the wounds we received along the way, we all learn survival strategies that we have used to plaster over the lathe of our hearts.

Plaster is the equivalent to today’s drywall and mud. It was adhered to the walls to protect the occupants of the structure from the utilities buried within, and to provide a nice smooth, clean surface to look at and enjoy. Similarly, our survival strategies and coping mechanisms protect our more tender places from pain, and hide the areas that aren’t as pretty to look at.

But as you might know, plaster doesn’t hold up that well over time. Vibrations from passing trucks, harsh winters and hot summers, and just normal use will cause cracks to form. Eventually it will start to fall. If you don’t tear it out and replace it, the once protective layer becomes a liability, causing unexpected pain and damage. You might be right there with me, noticing the cracks and failings of the plaster works you made in your own life years ago.

Tearing out plaster sucks. And doing the work of uncovering the places in my heart that I plastered over is equally uncomfortable at times. But as in remodeling an old Victorian-style home, the end result can be breathtaking. It’s worth the black boogers.

Where have you noticed the cracks in your plaster?

How are you tending to yourself and working to rediscover your own heart underneath? Are you tearing out the old plaster and finding restoration?

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Cody Buriff, Director of Resource Initiatives