Jan 25, 2016

When You Have too Many Spots & And Your Windows Just Really Need to Be Washed

Today I wash windows. I wring out the cloth and rub over the glass, leaving spotted trails of water. The window is long and looks into the living room of Lori's ranch house. I wipe away the wet with a dry towel and gaze through the clear, clear glass. It's crystal, sparkling in the sunshine. Smiling at my smile inside the glass.

I move on to the next, carrying the bucket of dirty water. It's satisfying, seeing I've wiped away all that flithy-ness. Made the glass pretty again.

The morning air blows cold around my face. My fingers tingle. But I find myself in the window I just washed. My smile fades. I missed a spot. It wasn't there before. 

Why didn't I see it? How was it so easy to miss? I scrub hard on the spot, making doubly sure there are no spots left over. But low and behold, I look at my reflection and still see spots.

Sometimes I look right through myself. I see a clean, clear glass. No blemishes. No spots. Just a pretty me. It's like a big spot all over me, so big I can't see how big it really is. I'm ugly in places I can't even see. 

I wipe at the spots, at the glass of my soul, scrubbing and scrubbing. Trying to hide it from Him. From everyone.

But I'm not like the windows. I wash, and wash, and wash, leaving lines, smearing. They grow, breeding others, splotching my soul. Black bleeding spots, burning. I can't make them pretty again.

It's only pure when there's nothing underneath.

When I lose the rag to wash with, and the paint cracks and peels, when the rain comes and mud cakes the corners of my soul and I can't see anything but the good I am not, when I feel so ashamed of my dirt, my ugliness then He rips His spotless clean garment from His body. 

His body gushes blood from holes in His skin, running in red streams from His fingers, dripping over His eyes, off His cheek, pooling at His feet. He rises. Hurting, limping, hands shaking, He dips His white garment into the pool of blood . . .

And today He washes windows. My window. He wrings out the cloth and rubs it over me. Leaving spotted trails of blood. My window is long and looks into the Temple of God.
He smiles as He wipes away the black puss with a dry towel and gazes through the clear, clear glass.
It's crystal, sparkling in the sunshine.
He stands back, surveying the beauty of His handiwork.
He takes my hand and sets me in my place, wiping over me once more. The Finish. Smiling at His smile inside the glass, Him inside of me . . .

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