Yesterday we were invited to a wonderful Easter meal. We had a blast. The food. The company. The conversation. Aces on all counts. When my friend and I moved to the kitchen to clean up some my eyes bulged as soon as I saw the dishes she placed in her dishwasher. Lamb, bits of potatoes (and man, were they yummy potatoes), and pieces of corn clung to the plates. Almost a full pat of butter decorated a knife.
“You can put these in like that?”
“Yep, that dishwasher will clean everything.”
“Wow.” I stood staring. In awe. And with wee bit of jealousy. Then I got to thinking. (Yep, can’t really stop myself.)
I have to practically scratch my dishes from here to kingdom come before I even think of tucking them in for the night in my dishwasher. Scrape until the plate is vulnerable to chipping. (No, this is not a story about dishwasher envy, although it very well could be.)
My brain clicked. (Ideas are like Tinker Toys up there.)
I’m like my dishes.
I’m like my dishes. With my dishwasher.
I’m sinful (no big surprise there, folks). I’ve got all kinds of gunk that corrodes the way I want to live. It hangs off me like half-eaten green beans on my friend’s plates. I can’t just be tossed into a deluxe dishwasher and expect to come out with a Palmolive shine (just pop a check in the mail, Palmolive).
I’m a thinker. I reflect. I turn things over. I mull. I mentally tinker. I take the long road to repentance sometimes. More often than not I need a good soak.
I need to soak in the reminder of grace. In truth. In humility.
There is no get clean quick scheme for me. I’m that caked with crud.
Sometimes it blows my mind that anyone would ever bother.
Washing dishes can be such a tedious job. Your hands get that weird old person bumpy feel, then dry and flaky. Your back aches from bending. And grime gets all over your fingers. And then you have to do it all again after the next meal.
Sometimes it blows my mind that anyone would even bother.
But he did. He does. Over and over and over again.
*photo by stockXCHNG