Sand in My Shoes

When I was a boy I played in a sand and gravel yard. I climbed over piles of sand and dived into them. When it was time to go home for supper I was loaded with sand and all tired out.

My horrified mother could not believe how dirty and sandy I was. My shoes, loaded with sand, made it hard to walk right. I even had sand in my hair. I was a candidate for the Grubbiest Kid in America Award.

I brought home slabs of tar to melt in the hot sunlight of summer. It fascinated me.

My patient mother would spread newspapers on the floor for me to undress on. "Look at you, how do you get so dirty?" she would say. But she loved me anyway.

Now I want to talk about my beloved church that has become grubby too. How can I not love it, despite the dirt it has collected, and some tar too? It happens to churches and governments. They forget their beginnings, and like snowballs rolling downhill, pick up what they roll in.

I imagine some people scolding me for being so critical all the time. "It won't make heaven any prettier" is a common remark concerning things I wish would be gotten rid of. But a bride, going to her wedding, would not stop to play a game of touch football, lest she get grass stains on her beautiful dress.

I had to unload all the sand and really wash up before supper as a kid. We're headed for a wedding and a supper too. Let us be as nice as we can before that blessed day.