We made a rule when we moved into our new home. "No dirt allowed," we had said, as if proclaiming it would keep all the grunge away and the kids would just instantly know better than to come in dirty.
Yeah.
All winter long we waited for sunshine and when it came through the windows, I noticed the grime. The dog-prints and bug splats and mud splashes, and someone kissed good-bye through the kitchen glass or at least pretended to, smudging their nose and lips and chin right at about 4 feet high.
Greasy, grimy little face prints.
Even the dust. I understand why they're called "dust-bunnies", because they just multiply and proliferate before your eyes.
I notice the dust in the sunlight. I watch it escape the dust cloth and settle again to mock me and I see it under the piano and covering the light fixtures, and my view is clouded by it.
Nevermind the sunlight. Look at the dust and dirt.
The sun shines in through dirty glass and shows dirty floors and my broom flies with it, vanity of vanities, trying to chase away the natural stuff of living.
I think heaven must be a dirt-less place, but I'll have to ponder that one while I chase the bunnies. Maybe a clean life is boring and lifeless, us all made of dirt in the first place.
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Click over here to read a parable to your littles, called Motes in the Sunbeam. This was on my mind while I wrote about dust and dirt and sunlight, and how I miss the blessing sometimes when I only see the mess.
Linking up with Lisa Jo and the Five Minute Friday community.