The window is long and looks into the living room of Lori's ranch house.
I smile as I wipe away the wet with a dry towel and gaze through the clear, clear glass.
It's crystal, sparkling in the sunshine.
I stand back, surveying the beauty of it.
I push it back into place and wipe over it once more. Smiling at my smile inside the glass.
Then I move on to the next, carrying the bucket of dirty water with me.
It's satisfying. Seeing I've wiped away all that flithy-ness. Made the glass pretty again.
Sometimes I look right through myself. I see a clean, clear glass. No blemishes. No spots. Just a pretty me.
It's only when He moves me to the side, away from my reflection, that I see the ugliness. See how dirty I really am, even though I look clean to me.
And then I can't look. I can't bare to admit it. I wipe at the spots, at the glass of my soul, scrubbing and scrubbing. Trying to hide it from Him.
It's satisfying. Complete.
Seeing He has wiped away all the flithy-ness.
Seeing He still loves me.
Seeing how much He wanted to make me pretty for Him, not me.
Seeing how He did . . .
I stand up. The burning gone. The guilt gone. Forgiveness steeping in my soul. It will dry, leaving me white. No more paint that cracks and peels away. No more hiding from Him, feeling lost. No more trying and failing to make myself clean.
I take a big, deep breath of the clean, clean wind. I fill up with sunshine.
No more remembering I've got spots when I long to be clean like Him. He's washed my window.
And He didn't leave any spots. I don't need to step to the side. I don't need to make sure.
I close up the window. I switch the locks and stand back. I smile. I whisper, "Thank You, Jesus."