Badges of Honor

My husband entered the house, T-shirt, jeans, hands and arms speckled with pale green paint. After playfully threatening to wipe his hands on my hair, he headed for the bathroom to wash and change. When he returned, however, the paint had not totally disappeared.

He had used water-soluble paint, and from past experience I knew that scrubbing would effectively remove all traces from body parts. But Gary’s hands still bore the reminders of his house painting. Perhaps he hadn’t taken the time to wash it all off, or, perhaps subconsciously, he didn’t want to remove all the paint. When he arrived at his swing-shift job that evening, the paint drips were bound to attract attention.

"Been painting?" someone might ask.

"Yup," I imagined Gary’s reply. "I’m painting the house. Finished the back and west sides today. Tomorrow I start on the other half."

"That’s a lot of work!" his fellow employee might add.

Gary would smile, trying to look modest. "It sure is, but it makes the house look a lot better."

In wartime, soldiers earn medals for heroism and special service. They wear them proudly so that others may see what they have accomplished. Civilians earn no such awards for their service to family and others. Their sacrifices often go unnoticed by all but the closest family and friends. If Gary had washed his hands thoroughly, no one might have known he spent hours painting the house himself to save money and make it look good for his wife and kids. His paint splotches became a badge of honor, alerting others to what he had done.

For most people, Gary included, these badges of honor are unintentional. They reveal themselves like the wounds of an old soldier, covered as much as possible but recognized through a limp or a grimace. We may have to look hard to see them if we want to honor those around us.

Parents wear many such badges. How many times have you seen a mother attempting to wipe spit-up off her blouse? Although she prefers to conceal it, that stain testifies to hours of feeding, rocking and burping her newborn.

And how about dark circles under the eyes of parents, the ones moms try to hide with make-up? Or eyelids that droop during church or a long meeting? Those mothers and fathers have spent long nights cradling fussy infants, driving them to the hospital when fevers rose too high and watching them as they slept.

Other badges come specially child-made: shirts with little handprints displayed across them, necklaces of bright beads and pins with seashells carefully glued on. Jewelry that no fashion expert would approve is proudly worn by parents.

Not all badges of honor are reserved for parents, of course. What about the grease-stained pants of the man who roasted turkeys for the church Thanksgiving feast? Or the scratched hands of a teenager who helped clear brambles from the local park? Once we start looking, we find them everywhere.

Next time my husband walks in with greasy jeans or paint-smeared hands, I will try not to complain. Instead I will tell him how much I appreciate his extra work. I will watch for those emblems on others and try to honor them for the service they have given.