cut and clean.

The Lady in Pink, as she is called, is a cashier at one of my family's favorite BBQ joints. Her title isn't as romantic as it sounds because the woman, over the years, has fallen into somewhat of a slump in the eyes of the family. To put it bluntly, she's a tad bitchy for us all. Her title isn't one of chivalrous respect, but rather of an air of "you-don't-deserve-a-name."

Now, of course, none of us really despise her. It's just that none of us have had a positive experience with her. Ever.

We were eating there tonight, and for some reason, it hit me that to some extent, we are all the lady in pink. We all have some trait or have had some interaction with someone that leaves us in a less-than-ideal situation when dealing with others.

The way we handle the ladies in pink, though, is all wrong. We are quick to see the pink shirts everyone else wears--t-shirts, tank tops, v-necks and spaghetti straps, but find it extremely difficult to see our own pink. I don't wear pink. I wear magenta. I'm not that bad, you just have to know how to take me.

No. You are that bad.

And so am I.

That's the point. In Christ, our pinks become white, bleached clean again.


On the way home, I past a lawn that had just had it's grass cut. The scent of clean green flooded the car, and I thought, just for a moment, that maybe that is what heaven smells like.

blessings.
jon.