My day started with not one, but two little girls walking through dog crap on their way into my house.
The trail of doom was extensive.
Crap on the porch.
Crap on the welcome mat.
Crap all over the entry... and the area rug...and the ottoman.
Crap on the sofa.
Crap on the stairs.
Somewhere between the car and my living room those two little sets of pink sneakers had become weapons of mass destruction. Poop stamps.
I swear, it was no more than twenty seconds between the time they arrived and the time I realized we were smack in the middle of the Great Poop Debacle of 2013. Apparently, twenty seconds is all it takes for two small girls in pigtails to make you want to burn your house down.
So I spent the morning on my knees, doing biohazard removal. Lucky me. Praying not to barf. Praying not to take my cheap Ikea rug too seriously. Praying for the health and well-being of all who enter my home, now laced with e-coli, doused with bacteria, swimming in... worms. Yeah, pretty sure worms.
Anyway. I cleaned and I prayed, bent and low, swaying the way one might if they fell to their knees in despair. I begged for relief, for help, for a strong stomach. I complained. I whined. And then, finally, I remembered who I am in Christ. This was my path to the Western wall, a sacred ceremony of sorts; swiping at poopy prints to force a humble posture. A simple, stooped reminder that I am but a servant to this world.
I will clean up shit.
Maybe even happily.
I will remember, between dry heaves and fresh paper towels, that God has delivered me.
And when He did, He created a foot washer. Even if those feet just flattened a gooey turd.
So this was not the crappiest day, although it was filled with crap. It was a sweet ~albeit smelly~ reminder that our posture in these matters matters.
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Will it take a Poop Debacle to force you to get down low? Do you think posture matters?