Never mess with a vandal’s ritual.
It was late when I tucked the vandals, our 3 and 5-year-old sons into bed and kissed them on semi-sticky cheeks, I had a rush of guilt. I should have bathed them. Instead, I had used an entire container of diaper wipes on their crusty little bodies before putting their pajamas on them, then I squirted them with a shot of Febreeze.
Calm down, I didn’t get it in their eyes… this time.
To placate my blame and earn some uncorrupted slumber, I read them two books instead of just one. And then, too tired to think any further I tossed out a drone and rote Lord’s Prayer.
“Our Father, who art…” the vandals went nuts.
The eldest, Sam yelped, “STOP! Dats not your talk to God!”
The younger, Charlie concurred, “Dats Daddy’s talkin’ to God! Herms says it to us! You say somefin diffwent!”
Granted, this is my husband’s go to prayer. His familiar voice and the aged old prayer has wandered down the halls of our home for 20-some-odd years of child rearing, along with his go-to favorite bedtime story books, Marvin K. Mooney and The Pig in the Pond.
“Actually, anyone can pray this prayer. And I am tired, so let’s finish up and go to bed.”
The rest of my prayer may or may not have been received by the Lord as the wailing and gnashing of teeth by the vandals was… loud. And as I left them, to grieve the tragic end to their nearly perfect day by praying their father’s, Our Father… I remembered all the other times I had been told I wasn’t welcome to something that involved the Lord of all.
As early as 1976, I remember the feelings associated with the haves and have-nots of religion. Not being invited to a relative’s wedding because it was in the Temple, and only Mormons with Temple Recommends could enter. Or the girl in Sunday school that said that coloring sheets were only for the “saved and dunked.” Even at my wedding, when it was explained to me that I couldn’t have communion because I didn’t understand the “gravity of the truth.”
Still, He is mine.
No matter what any single human has told me, deep inside me… somehow, I knew.
I was adored.
I was craved.
Unto a brutal death on a rugged Cross… for me.
Dearest friend, no matter what you face today, if only… If only the parts of Jesus that were most spectacular were the guiding forces in every decision. If only… He was wholly the focus. If only you could see a glimpse of His passionate love for you… That you might be undone by the majesty of what is yours.
The freedom of the inheritance… the breath of Heaven that is your legacy, for something more.
Yet, the tendency is to proclaim the less than as uninvited – ironically since no one was left out when it came to the Great I am. Prior to the Cross… yeah sure, but never after.
All are welcome.
Come to the table.
Clothed in white, invited – so truly loved.
You are wanted… unto a brutal death on the Cross.
And all the outcasts, thieves, liars, cheats, harlots, and speakers of the wrong prayers say… Amen.
May your floors be sticky and your calling ordained. Love, Jami
I do not set aside the grace of God, for if righteousness could be gained through the law, Christ died for nothing!” Galatians 2:21
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