Jesus, thank You for the abundance of clothing You’ve given us. However, vacillating fall temperatures — plus, um, up-and-down size changes — have glutted our closets. Opening them, OMG, we fear for our lives!
O Lord, how do two adults generate so many dirty clothes? In the beginning, Adam and Eve only laundered their own skins. But because of the Fall, we have to wash, dry and fold more than fig leaves. OMG, is there any way I can farm out these Monday morning piles to the laundromat — and send A & E the bill?
#Laundry #Neverlistentosnakes
Jesus, I didn’t know February’s named after a Roman festival that emphasized cleaning rituals. Cleaning?! Ack, does this mean I have to clean my fridge? Under it too?!
Image by syklimkin from Pixabay
Instead, You say You want to scrub the cruddy corners of my life for me. And that Your service is free, already paid in full.
Sounds like the best deal in the world! Though, OMG, I have a feeling Mr. Clean …
has nothing on You!
Image by Gert Altmann from Pixabay
Jesus, You know I often struggle to assume an attitude of gratitude. But on this chilly, damp Monday, with one flush, I remembered my papaw’s outhouse.
Image by Dieter Scharnagl from Pixabay.
OMG, for cleaning two-and-a-half indoor baths, I am THANKFUL.
Image by congerdesign from Pixabay.
These small words elicit king-sized effects.
My first cranky thought, another songwriter has run out of originality, as in:
Being there (ooh, baby) Being there (ooh, baby) Being there is like … Being there (ooooh, BABY!)
Okay, I need a second cup of coffee today. With double cream.
Much better.
Now I recall that being there when airline personnel solicit volunteers to take a different flight, I might land a free future trip.
Being in the right checkout line can mean the difference between three Tylenol® and only one.
Being there at a library during a 1970 Christmas break placed me near the railing of a second-story atrium, eyeing my future husband below. Thus, I ensured he wasn’t with a girl and could “accidentally” run into him. (He still calls this stalking, but that’s because he hasn’t yet drunk his morning tea.)
Being there at a gas station when someone, perched on a ladder, is changing prices can mean a savings of 11 whole cents per gallon. Although, if the price is upped 11 whole cents, you’ve picked the perfect time and place to ruin your morning.
Though that timing isn’t as bad as certain shoplifters’ when, according to Reader’s Digest, they attempted major heists on Shop-with-a-Cop Day.
Being there can get complicated. Still, we want others to be there for us.
My mother refined this into an art form. One joyful day, when I learned I was ranked 10th in my high school class, I arrived home to the fragrance of muffins fresh from the oven. She’d baked them either to celebrate or console. Whatever happened, they were there for me.
So was Mom.
However, she also was there to enslave me with chores, require church attendance, and stare through my dates and me with righteous black eyes.
Years later, I appreciated her when I, too, baked after-school treats, mini-vanned my kids everywhere, and wandered into the den to “get stamps” from my desk while they were entertaining dates.
Being there can be threatening, wonderful, scary, tedious, triumphant, smelly, or comforting, but rarely boring. And lots better than not being there.
Sometimes, it’s just plain cuddly.
Tonight, Hubby and I are watching a Cubs game. We don’t make brilliant conversation. We don’t have to make conversation at all.
We simply savor being there.
Ooooh, baby.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Who’s been there for you?
O Lord, You know my husband does a great job with the laundry. Recently, though, the cranberry-colored place mats he washed dyed our towels pink. Very pink. But, OMG, it was easy to forgive him. You recall that as a new wife, I accidentally turned all his underwear lavender. Very lavender…
O Lord, You didn’t give plants the ability to speak words, bark, or meow. They can’t even drag their dishes across the floor. But OMG, when we forget to water them (for two whole days!), they make their feelings very clear.
How did the dresser start out in life? I don’t know, but its size and plain, sturdy lines said, “I belong to a kid.”
The dresser’s original kid probably wadded clothes Mom had folded and stuffed them into its drawers. Perhaps he yanked out drawers, climbed the “stairs” and jumped off the top with an umbrella parachute.
Years later, I discovered that dresser in a secondhand store, marked half-price. It would do until my three-year-old son started school. However, it wore a woebegone, cast-off aura.
My mother, two thousand miles away, whispered in my mind, “Nice find. Great price. But this little dresser needs happy paint.”
As a teen, I’d rolled my eyes when Mom painted end tables orange and a bedroom suite blue. Who did that?
Well … I did. After a critical paint chip comparison, I began painting the chest eye-popping blue. I planned to paint its handles equally vivid red.
Then my young husband needed an emergency appendectomy. While Hubby slowly recovered from complications, I slowly finished the dresser. Late at night, I added a second coat, a third, maybe more — I don’t remember. I experienced a glad moment when I hauled the completed dresser upstairs to my son’s bedroom. An even happier one when I brought his daddy home.
David, flanked by his older sisters, was a toddler when I painted the dresser a vivid blue.
Both had jobs to do. Daddy returned to work. The dresser once more endured yanks, shoves and a “helpful” kid who stuffed clothes Mom had folded into its drawers. (He also attempted to climb to the dresser top, but I stopped him on the second step.)
A doggie bank constructed from a Pringles can resided on it, along with half-consumed PB&J sandwiches and piles of baseball cards. With ABC curtains, Mickey Mouse sheets, and a carpet perpetually layered with toys, the dresser helped make the room my kid’s haven.
But adolescence sneaked in. The first clouds of Eau de Gym Shoe settled over his room and, with them, a dark cloud of protest: Mickey Mouse sheets? Seriously? Did he really need ABCs displayed on his curtains?
David with his wife and their first baby.
I changed his décor to manly navy blue. Strangely, he didn’t ask me to lose the dresser.
Perhaps, even he realized he didn’t need a bigger one. Why, when his wardrobe resided in heaps on the floor?
Plus, the doggie bank’s big smile still matched the dresser perfectly.
One day, he departed for college, then marriage. The cheerful blue dresser, deprived of its kid, looked a little sad.
Now, though, it proudly houses coloring books, finger paints, and Play-Doh for grandchildren.
That dresser was made for kids.
And this old kid still loves it.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What furniture in your home tells your family’s story?
O my God, You designed me with neatnik DNA. You know I dared my sister to cross a line I’d drawn in our bedroom, lest she deface my perfect side with her clutter. I’m not sure what genetic catastrophe occurred in my makeup since then. OMG, do you think I should apologize?
O my God, thank You for the promise of eternal life. For a future perfect home — including the perfect linen closet — that You’re designing for me. OMG, I’ll even be able to find the pillowcases?!