The phrase “spit polish” contains within it a striking contradiction. On the one hand, there is the sense of extreme perfection and dedication. You would do anything to attain the faultless radiance of a perfect polish, even use your own spit. But that is the stranger part—to get something brilliant and beautiful, you use something base and elemental … something that is not beautiful.
I enjoy a good polish as much as the next girl, but when you’re talking about holy things, I am deeply suspicious of that kind of shine. “Where’s the spit?” I want to ask. Evidence of spit would convince me that there was some cost here, that someone’s very essence went in to creating the illusion of spotless ease. Because for me, those rough edges are a clearer evidence of grace than all the polish in the world.
So when I see the gleam of perfect shine, I look closer, and ever closer, and hope with all my heart to find even the slightest trace of spit remaining somewhere on the surface.