So I was pondering scrubbing my beautiful hard-wood floor, and the fact that I could get it all spiffy, only to have muddy feet wander all over it. Then I'd be tempted to whine and moan and berate the mud-bearer. I'd even be a martyr and clean the floor AGAIN. I'd launch into an hour long sermon on how mud-tracking shows such a lack of respect, and how selflessness shows a certain holiness. All this vaguely familiar to a resounding gong and clanging cymbal.
It dawned on me that I'm very thankful my Savior doesn't think of my sin the way I think of mud-tracking. He went to all the trouble to SAVE me, for crying out loud, and then I go and mess it all up again!
No, He wraps me in his arms, tells me how He delights in me, and how He longs to cleanse me all over again. He speaks of how readily and eagerly He forgives me. And then we just hang out, enjoying each other's company.
I suppose, as I run out the door, He might add an after-thought: "Adina, you might want to learn the self-discipline of not running through the house with muddy feet. You would greatly benefit if you could conquer that impulse. I'll help you with that, if you want. Not because I'll love you more if you take your shoes off at the door, but because the results in your heart would be so amazing. I couldn't possibly love you more than I do already."
(on a side note, this house is occupied by two adults, one child, two dogs, and one cat. You can decide who tracks in the most mud!)
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