As I survey the wondrous scene of blissful domesticity I go to grumble when I get a thought. The thought is of God asking who do I think clears up the mess of my sins and I say grudgingly that He does. Then He cajoles me to answer the question properly before which I point out to the Almighty Creator that it’s one thing to deal with the sins of the world, it’s another thing coming home from a long and tiring day to realise you can’t feel comfortable in your own bedroom neither will you be able to get to sleep without sorting out the mountain of plates and assorted other crockery that will need to be sorted tonight as I’m out and about early tomorrow.
At this list of overwhelming evidence the Lord again points to the cross and my stubborn, sulking child is replaced with a knowing gratitude and humility at the pain that my Saviour endured without a word of complaint. I consider the stripes by which I’m healed; I consider His crushing for my evil-doing and sin-nature. I reflect on the wondrous cross and resolve that I reckon I will do the dishes, have me dinner (yeah my eating patterns are almost as wacky as I am) then retire to the bedroom and give thanks for Calvary before getting the sleep that He’ll bountifully supply and should He see fit I’ll get to start another wonderful adventure with Him all over again.
Having said that, if you do have another bakewell tart, Father, you know it will find a good home in me tummy.
For His Name's Sake
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