my hair is freshly washed and i want to see the Spirit move.
i dump sheets into the washer, pour soup over, set it to wash. this isn’t particularly spiritual work by any means but “she watches over the affairs of her household” and while i may not have my own, i figure i could use the practice.
also my sheets are dirty and i’m way behind on laundry.
it’s over a month ago at the shoe store i worked at when i wearily pick up another cardboard box and wonder what the whole point even is.
and then words flash from heaven to neuron and it’s one more thing i’ve learned to see through His eyes instead of my own.
by whose hands is this made holy?
by whose hands indeed?
because my sorry ones wreck everything they touch and i am weary from the trying to make it better.
but His mighty ones mold us, carefully, faithfully, after plunging us in the living water that we might be made soft and malleable, ready, waiting, for the Spirit to work through us.
His hands make the work of ours holy, so I pick up boxes, put sheets in the washer, set hands to keyboard, in the small trust that He who is faithful to complete this good work is in the process of doing just that, right now.