Several weeks ago during a driving rain, a leak-spot appeared on an upstairs ceiling. Since the ceiling had recently been painted pristine white, the near-black stain was an eyesore. Finally, after many more rains and no new stains, it was time to paint over it.

First it had to be sealed. Among the toxic supplies in my basement was a product called B.I.N, something we’ve used in the past with 100% success. Billed as the “ultimate stain blocker,” the B.I.N did exactly as it promised.

As I was scraping off my foam brush on the edge of the can, suddenly it separated from its wooden handle and plopped into the B.I.N. Instinctively I grabbed it with my hand before it disappeared beneath the surface, making a terrible mess.

Luckily the can had been sitting on a protected surface, so no damage was done. Cleaning off my hand, however, was another matter. Standing at the basement utility sink, I started with soap and water but quickly realized B.I.N. was tougher than that.

So it was into the world of smelly toxins. I like using strong-smelling stuff since it gives my mostly-dormant nose something to do. Scrubbing first with paint thinner (didn’t work), I followed with turpentine (intense smell but also failed).

Reaching to the back of the shelf I found mineral spirits and naphtha. (Still nothing.) The upstairs medicine cabinet offered a few more options, so I scrubbed my hand with nail polish remover, peroxide and rubbing alcohol (to no avail).

Ironically, B.I.N. got rid of a ceiling stain but birthed a fresh stain on me. Deciding it would just have to wear off, I hammered the can shut and put it away, which is when I decided to read the label. Sure enough, help was right there in print: ammonia.

It worked like a charm, but when I put the bottle to my nose for one last sniff, even without much sensitivity, my nose said, “That stinks!”

A basement isn’t the only place where life can stink. Negatives come to all of us now and then, and bad news doesn’t discriminate.

For example, I remember the first time it occurred to me I was about to become a widow. Prior to that I’d only used that word in reference to Mom or elderly aunties. I knew only two widows my own age and hadn’t spent any time pondering widowhood for myself.

Then Nate got sick, and reality hit. Even though I was consumed with what each day would bring for him, the fall-out of his illness was going to mean widowhood for me. Every bit of it was hard to swallow. Or should I say hard to smell. It stunk.

But life’s stinky stuff is our best chance to smell good to God. We can rivet our attention on him rather than on our circumstances, and in some mysterious way, that morphs into a rich aroma for him.

And his sense of smell is flawless.

“Our lives are a Christ-like fragrance rising up to God… To those who are perishing, we are a dreadful smell of death and doom. But to those who are being saved, we are a life-giving perfume.” (2 Corinthians 2:15,16)

Skylar, my two year old granddaughter, amazes us with her comments. In Florida recently, she and I were sitting on her bedroom floor, nose-to-nose:

“Grandma Midgee, your eyes are blue.”

“So are yours.”

“And your eyes have black in the middle.”

“So do yours.”

Suddenly she got quiet but kept staring into my eyes.

Finally she said, “Old ladies get cracks in their eyes.”

I guess my bloodshot was showing. Long life seems to “crack us up” that way.

In our study of the Book of Job this morning, our pastor used a great word picture to illustrate Job’s life. She described each of us as looking at life through a big, clear glass window. As children, our view is good, but eventually, without warning, a rock gets thrown and “Crack!” There’s a flaw.

A barrage of rocks hit Job’s window, so damaging he found himself sitting in a heap of broken glass wondering how he got there. But after he passed his faith-test, God miraculously mended his window, putting the shattered pieces together again.

That isn’t to say Job’s post-cracked-life was exactly as it had been before the rocks. His relationship with God had changed, and his additional 10 children were not duplicates of the first 10. I would guess his marriage changed, too. And surely all who watched his fall and subsequent rise were keenly interested to hear what he had to say.

But what about his repaired window? Was it permanently scarred?

A year ago, my Toyota Highlander and I were taking our first road trip when a rock smacked the windshield leaving a one-inch crack. By the time we got to Florida, it had ever-so-slowly grown a couple of inches, forking into two cracks. After we returned home, I called Geico to ask their advice. They were quite specific:

“If the crack fits under a dollar bill, we’ll fix it for free. If it’s bigger than that, you’re on your own.”

My neglect had done me in, because by that time the two cracks had grown to a couple of feet. The only way to fix them was to buy a new windshield.

God’s crack-repairs are free to us, and he does a spectacular job. Often, however, we find ourselves looking through quite a few cracks before he mends the window. Once in a while God will even break the glass himself, knowing that when he puts it back together, it’ll be better than the original.

He may even stain the glass.

Stained glass windows are made from intentionally broken glass, and as an artist assembles the pieces, a brand new image emerges. Just as old ladies get eye-cracks, life ”stains” us. Sometimes we long for that clean-and-clear window glass we had during childhood.

But God views our stain-experiences and our cracks as valuable. And in his hands, they become stunning works of art.

“Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her to make her holy, cleansing her… to present her to himself… without stain or wrinkle or any other blemish [like a crack], but holy and blameless.” (Ephesians 5:25-27)