His name was Sandy. He was a seven-year old, four-foot tall, dirt-magnet. He had been playing outside in the snow when his mother called him into the house.
"Sandy!" his mother said in surprise, "How did you get all muddy when there is a foot of snow outside? I swear, you're going to be the death of me yet!"
Nobody could find dirt like Sandy. And nobody, but nobody, hated taking showers more than Sandy.
So, what were his mother's next words? "Don't you take another step in this house! Take those muddy clothes off, and then get in the shower right now."
"Aw, Mom," Sandy protested. "I took a shower yesterday."
"And you're taking another one now," his mother answered.
"But, Mom!"
"Don't argue with me, young man," his mother said emphatically.
Then Sandy knew the battle was lost. Whenever his mother started calling him, "young man," it was time to stop delaying and start obeying.
So, Sandy got undressed and slowly slumped off toward the bathroom. But just before he got there, he made a quick detour into his bedroom. Then he dashed into the bathroom, holding something yellow in his arms. A few minutes later, his mother could hear the water running.
A little while later, Sandy sauntered into the TV room wearing his pajamas. He plopped down beside his mother, who reached out to put her arm around him.
Just then, his mother spotted mud in Sandy's hair. Looking closer, she saw more mud on the back of his neck, and on his face, and his hands, and his legs. And when she pulled up his pajama top there was more mud on his belly and his back.
"Off the couch!" she ordered. "You're still filthy-dirty! I told you to get in the shower!"
"I did!" Sandy protested.
"Then why are you still dirty?" she asked.
"I don't know," Sandy said innocently.
"Well, I don't know what part of you was in the shower, but I see a whole bunch of parts that never even got wet. Now you just march right back in there, and get right back into the shower. Get wet all over this time. And use soap," she added, "from top to bottom, front to back, and side to side." That should cover all the parts he left out the first time, she figured.
"But, Mom, I just took a shower," Sandy pleaded.
"Did you hear what I said, young man?" And not waiting for an answer, she added, "Get yourself back into that shower, young man!"
Yes, he heard it – a double "young man." He didn't dare argue his case any longer. So, Sandy drug himself back into the bathroom.
Again, his mother heard the water running, even longer this time. Then a few minutes after the water had stopped running, Sandy came out of the bathroom and went straight into his bedroom. He didn't want to risk another inspection by his mother.
His plan didn't work, though, because his mother had spotted him.
"Sandy," she called. "Come in here. I want to see you."
"Resigning himself to his fate, Sandy plodded into the TV room.
"Sandy Drummond, I can't believe it! You're still dirty!"
This was serious. She had used his middle name. He just turned around, and fled back into bathroom. He didn't even mention how unfair and inhumane it was to force him to take three showers in one day, and right after each other.
"Clean! I want clean!" he heard his mother call after him.
This time, his mother didn't wait for Sandy to finish. When she heard the water running, she went to inspect.
As she opened the bathroom door, she couldn't believe her eyes. There stood her son in the shower, but with his yellow raincoat on him, with the hood over his head and all the snaps snapped together up the front. The water was pouring down over the coat, and Sandy was briskly rubbing soap all over the coat. From the looks of it, this was the cleanest raincoat in town. But the boy underneath, was still totally dry – and still dirty.
Questions for Meditation, Discussion or Preaching
