No Pictures Called For

So I'm watching the World Series game last night. Boston has a commanding lead and Josh Beckett is close to untouchable. Steve's already gone to bed, secure in victory, and I'm thinking I'll do the same. I'd only slept 2 hours the night before because of pain. I'm yawning, watching one last out...

...and I heard the clitter-clatter of Tasha's paws on the kitchen floor. I'm still yawning, thinking I'll give her a dog biscuit on my way up to bed. And there's more tick-tock of claws, meaning she's wandering...

...meaning she needs to go to the bathroom.

I hop up, run to the kitchen and euwwwwwwww.

There's is nothing worse than cleaning up dog diarrhea, especially when it's in the hall, the kitchen, and my carpeted office. Except maybe doing it at 11:30 at night with a bad arm. Dear me!

Why didn't she just go to the door and scratch? Maybe because, in her deafness, she didn't realize I was still downstairs? Is that why she went from room to room, leaving a mess?

This begs another in-your-face spiritual analogy. God is in heaven, Christ is in us, and yet I admit that I wander around as if I don't have this glorious promise, this remedy for my sin. Sprinkling (or smearing) my sin here and there, not able to find the door and ask to be let out...or really, to ask God in.

Last night I used bleach to wash the stains away. I had to get on my hands and knees to do a good part of it.

God provides a different remedy, an eternal one, a wash-and-rinse cycle that won't ever fade or discolor. I need to be on my hands and knees to receive the best part of it.