“The LORD Almighty planned it, to bring down her pride in all her splendor and to humble all who are renowned on the earth.” ∼ Isaiah 23:9 ∼
On Sundays, I try really hard to look like a decent human being.
Six out of the seven days in a week, I usually look like an ancient, haggard mom who doesn’t have much time for a shower…much less a face full of makeup, clean clothes, or anything other than a messy ponytail. So on Sundays, I try to clean it up for the Lord.
I also try really hard to make sure my children look adorable on Sundays. You know—the frilly lacy dress for her and the cute collared shirt for him. There is just something special about dressing up and looking our best when we go to worship. To me, it shows some reverence. And, to be honest, there is probably a little bit (or a lot) of my own pride involved…but I try to ignore that inconvenient truth.
However, there is often one problem with our little Sunday spruce up.
We all will be smelling good, feeling fresh, and looking fine. We won’t have had any meltdowns—all of our little people will be in sunny moods, cooing and blowing raspberries in the backseat of the minivan. We will be on time. We will be wide awake, ready to listen and soak in a good word.
And then we hear it. Or maybe we catch a faint whiff.
My husband and I immediately dart our eyes toward each other in a panic. I glance at the clock, calculating the time it will take to change the diaper of the offending culprit against the time we have until the service begins. We whip into a parking space and shoot out of our vehicle doors. He sniffs one twin, and I sniff the other. It’s not hard to figure out.
At times like these, I am SO appreciative of a minivan…with the third row seating down, it’s like a mobile baby changing station. We quickly remove our precious but putrid baby from the vehicle, only to find that familiar yellow color on the OUTSIDE of the diaper…and smeared on the outfit…and pooled in the car seat. Sigh.
And so we commence to cleaning.
After going through a whole pack of Pampers wipes, gone is the yellow. Gone is the dirty diaper. Gone is the stink. But gone, too, is the pretty little dress or the dapper little collared shirt. In its place is none other than a camouflage onsie (one that my husband proudly bought from the clearance rack at Walmart) that so aptly states, “Major cutie reporting for doody.”
I obviously forgot to pack back up clothes that were appropriate for our outing today.
And so, in we go to the church building, ten minutes late, dripping with sweat, with one twin as sophisticatedly dressed as Uncle Rico from Napoleon Dynamite. But at least we made it. We came to church even though the devil did his best to keep us from getting here.
A new hymn begins. We greet our fellow worshipers. The pastor begins his sermon as I reach for my Bible to turn to today’s scripture.
And that’s when I see it.
Underneath my fingernails.
The fingernails of the hand that I just used to shake everyone else’s hand.
Well, He humbles the proud, I guess.