The Mess

I see her mess before I see her. It’s hard to miss. As I walk through the house, debris litters the floor: leaves, sticky-burrs and assorted yard remains. When did my floor get so dirty? I just cleaned it two hours ago!

Then I see her, fur laden, with her head down. She can’t look me in the eye. After an exasperated moment, I say quietly, “Oh, Trixie.” And then I gently brush her down, cleaning her off until there’s a Westie-sized pile of debris on my floor. She stands there quietly, letting me tidy her up before I kiss her snoot and send her back on her way, forgiven.

I sweep up her mess and throw it away. We go on, until the next time.

I’m a mess, too. I screw up and do something hurtful or insensitive or just plain insane. I wallow in the dirt. Then I feel bad. I drag ass into God’s presence, ashamed and expecting to get scolded – if I could even hear Him yelling at me over my own internal castigation.

But I’ve never seen it work like that. There is no rebuke, no chastisement, no condemnation, even when He knows I’m going to go wallow in the dirt again - probably at the first opportunity. There’s not an exasperated, “Oh, daughter.” He just brushes me off and sends me back on my way, forgiven.

I would like a kiss on my snoot, though.