Toddlers and Our Dirty Hands| Guest Post at For His Great Name

I’m delighted to be guest posting on Alyssa’s blog For His Great Name today. Alyssa has such a heart for the Word and for proclaiming it to the world through missions. You can read my full post here, and be sure to read and follow her blog while you’re there!


“Bell-wup, Bell-wup!” my little brother calls, his toddler feet pattering across the wooden floor. Almost four and talking so well, yet my name has retained its babyish suffix. “I have dirty hands!” he proclaims sadly, holding them up for me to see. So I’ll help him up onto his stool in front of the sink, turning on the water and providing soap at the correct times.

But I sigh good-naturedly as I do so. Because this is the third time he’s done the exact same thing in fifteen minutes. And each and every time, no matter how hard I look, I can’t find anything on his hands. There’s no dirt. There’s no mud. There’s no smudges. He’s been playing with a mask, so maybe he brushed some glitter off, but even that I cannot see.

Yet he’s insistent that his hands are dirty. And if his hands are dirty, he knows they need to be washed.

Now, a toddler wanting to be continuously cleaned isn’t a big deal (in fact, I should probably be thankful, because the next little one will likely be the exact opposite). I’ll laugh at him and let him splash around and delight in the water that flows so freely out of the tap. But he’s not the only one who gets messy.

Because my hands are often dirty too. Not with physical dirt and germs, but with sin. With mistakes. With wrongs.

And yes, we know we all sometimes slip and land in the mud, the mire coming up to our elbows. We know we need to be washed then. But often it’s the little dirt that we pass over. I tell a little white lie (as if such a thing exists). I allow my anger to make me snap out, to just cross that line for a moment. I cut those corners because I just don’t feel like it today. I slip into gossip and condemnation. But we don’t see those as big deals. If someone else looked, they couldn’t really see it. But it’s still there. We still feel it. We still know our hands are dirty. Yet we allow it.

“It’s not a big deal,” we tell ourselves. “It’s just something little; I don’t need to go wash.” But that’s not true. Finish reading at For His Great Name

Toddlers and Our Dirty Hands

 

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Going To Church Is Useless — If

It was Easter Sunday, and I had no reason to go to church.

It was nine degrees outside. Nine degrees. This Southern girl had never experienced that before, not even in the darkest depths of winter. All I wanted to do was bury myself deeper into my bed, resting under my white covers rather than braving the white snow drifts outside. And I should have. I could have taken my time waking up, and eaten a nice warm breakfast, rather than scoffing down cereal. And I should have. I could have slowly and thoroughly prepared myself for the day, rather than rushing about in a flurry searching for gloves and scarves and tying shoelaces for my little brother. And I should have.

In fact, I should save myself the trouble of having to go to church every week, I should do away with the discipline of reading my Bible every morning, I should dispense with the whole of my faith — if.

If Christ is not risen.

Going To Church Is Useless -- If

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