Not long ago, as we were preparing to take a trip to Wisconsin for a family wedding, one of the items on my “to do” list was to wash the family truckster. For reasons that remain unclear to me, I prefer to embark on road trips with a clean, vacuumed, crushed-Goldfish-free minivan. Now if that last sentence doesn’t just confirm my membership in the “Mom with Young Children” Club, I don’t know what would. I was once cool and hip. I really was.
Susannah had assisted a friend’s mother wash her car the previous day and was very excited to offer her help to “Just wash it at home, Mommy. Solomon is scared of the car wash anyway. We can all do it together.”
She had a point. This is what Solomon looked like the last time we went through the car wash… It was very traumatic.
Suffice it to say, even though it was 95 degrees with an even higher heat index, I thought it would be very “Montessori-ish” to have the kids help me with washing the car.
I probably should have listened to my inner parenting voice and risked additional trauma for Solomon – the joy of helping mommy wash the van lasted for about five minutes.
You can probably guess who finished the job.
But as I scrubbed the cemented gnats and flies off of the fender, it made me think of Jesus, who washes us clean and scrubs hard at the caked-on bugs we wear on our fenders.
He washes us clean and I am so very thankful.