The Refrigerator and the Stairs

The Book of Ron · 37 of 48 · 3 minute read

At one time or another, all of my grandchildren lived with me in the house. Holly was one who sometimes withdrew into herself a bit, and there were things she simply hadn’t been taught yet. That’s not unusual for children. Someone just has to take the time to show them.

So I assigned Holly a chore.

Once a week she would clean the refrigerator. Inside and out. Everything removed, everything organized, everything put back exactly the way it should be. It had to be spotless.

Done properly, that job would take about an hour to an hour and a half.

At the same time, I made a commitment of my own. I would vacuum the stairs between the first floor and the second floor every single day.

No exceptions.

For forty-five days, anyone going up or down those stairs would notice that they looked different.

The first week came and Holly made a sincere effort. When she finished, she stood there looking forward to the inspection.

If you can imagine a Marine at Port Arms with the inspecting general standing before him, presenting his rifle and waiting to be judged on his performance, that was Holly standing beside that refrigerator.

She wanted to know how she had done.

Initially, she failed.

Calmly and gently, we pointed out the reasons why. Places that were missed. Things that weren’t organized correctly. Areas that simply needed more attention.

The second week came. It was better.

Still not quite right.

But she kept trying.

Within forty-five days something changed. Holly began looking forward to that refrigerator. She knew what the mission was. She knew how to do it. And she knew she had done it well.

When inspection time came, there was pride in her eyes.

She knew the job was done right.

There was happiness in that moment, because she knew I would see the effort she had made. And I did.

At the same time, I was doing my job.

Every day I vacuumed the stairs. No one inspected them. No one had to. I was in charge of the task.

But over time something interesting happened.

The grandchildren noticed.

As they went up and down those stairs, they began making little comments.

“Grandpa, these stairs look really good.”

There was a small sense of happiness in the house about something as simple as walking up and down the stairs, simply because the effort had been made and the discipline had been maintained.

One day, around the time I normally vacuumed the stairs, I went to the utility room to get the shop vac.

It wasn’t there.

I asked Cheryl, “Where’s the shop vac?”

She said she had been vacuuming her car and had left it upstairs.

“No big deal,” I said. “I’ll go get it.”

She looked at me and said, “You don’t have to do that. You’re just trying to prove a lesson.”

I smiled and said, “Absolutely.”

One day of lack of discipline, one day of failure, begins the erosion of everything you’ve built.

Justification is an exceptionally powerful tool. It can justify almost anything, including why you don’t have to do what you committed to do.

Understanding what needs to be done is wisdom.

But discipline is what gets it done.