Spit, Spit, Wipe

Her hat blew off! A backhanded slap up the back side of fall. Understated lean facilitated whispered gossip beneath brim. Tete-a-tetes of grand old ladies amid the lesser. And how much was directed toward stately pecan tree? Subject, I’m sure, of much curiosity. Quietly, of course.

Romance in the wood blooms colorful in autumn scuffle. Brilliant hats bend discrete and fall fashion skirts rustle attention in wind toss. Leafy. Outrageous! More fun than hats nesting birds and sprouting feathers and growing fruit worn by noble ladies of old. Such hats! And hers no less. Such leafy brim when air itself is gilded warm gold breath. This morning mine is silver chill. I pull up hood.

I have smudgy bathroom mirrors to clean today. Well actually, the whole smudgy bathroom, transparently speaking. “Multi-Purpose Surface Cleaner with Vinegar.”  Nearly empty, it just spits at mirror. Spit, spit, wipe. Spit, spit wipe. It is what it is. And so is the reflection.

 

I lean over counter and peer in close. Too close for comfort at my age!

But there is window. I turn to the window and see straight through. I turn back to mirror, and there is that hatless tree. Her reflection stares at me in this mirror and I’m overcome somehow.

I want to see clear. No smudges. No missing hats and wild twiggy hair. No grey hair strands of my own, for that matter. A hat? No. Just spit, spit, wipe.

Tree with Hat

I really just want to see Jesus. Clear. Not a smudgy form of His reflection. Not unclear like the blind man. I think about him. Didn’t Jesus spit on him?

I pull the trigger on my multi-purpose surface cleaner. Spit, spit, wipe.

I don’t fancy being spit on. And I wonder why there was no other way for the blind man. For me. But there wasn’t and still isn’t. Life itself makes that clear enough.

But there’s Jesus. And I want to see Him not as a tree walking around. (see Mark 8:23-25).

He does spit. It’s hard for me to say so. It seems so unclean. But my surface cleaner spits too, and it’s not unclean.

And then He wipes. Wipes blindness away. But it’s thick. Blindness. Kind of like the toothpaste blotch on the mirror. Spit, wipe and there’s smudge.

Wipe again. I do, even though it’s just mirror. Because Jesus did. And smudge wipes away. Clear. Face to face clear.

What am I seeing? Not what the blind man saw. He saw all-present Jesus face. Holy present I Am-ness light.

I’m seeing not all-present. In fact, I’m seeing only past. Nano-seconds past, as light travels. But past. It’s not drastic. Not like light years. Not like seeing light from stars that aren’t even there anymore. Or light from our galaxy from tens of thousands of years ago. Or from quasars whose light we see from billions of years ago. No. It’s just the mirror in front of me.

But, oh how I long to see Jesus face to face. Not like looking in a mirror and seeing dimly. But face to face. Like the blind man Jesus spit on and then twice wiped.

I want to see Jesus. Holy present I Am.

There Is Window

 

 

I kneel. It’s where His light is present. No reflection. Just His presence. No nano-seconds or light years. Just light eternity. I don’t understand, but His light reflects from eternity and is all-present, too. 

 
Chin tucks down. Lid dims eye.

 
“I have felt the spit, Lord.”

 
I have only a roll of paper towels beside my spitting cleaning solution.

 
“May I feel the wipe of Your hand?”

 

I dab eyes with a crumpled piece of paper towel.

 
“Do you see anything?” I recognized His Word.

 
I clench the paper towel tight. “I hope to see Your reflection when I look in the mirror. Smudgy me.”

 
“Smudgy you, yes.”

 
Ah! I feel His hand. It’s not so bad to see my reflection smudge.

 

After all, “The things of this world will grow strangely dim in the light of His glory and grace,” is hymn.

 
I open eyes. Sing hymn.

 
And I have mirrors to clean. 

 
Spit, spit, wipe. “See Me in your reflection.”

 
Spit, spit, wipe. “It’s how I see you.”

 

written by: Carolyn Roehrig