Memories are funny.
I’m in the midst of my twentieth load of laundry for the day. Somewhere between the granny panties and the sports bra, I catch sight of my Duran Duran concert shirt from 1984 (yes, I still have it, and yes, it actually still fits).
My mind slides back to that concert. I hear myself sobbing uncontrollably at the sight of my flawless, hunky idols. I think I scream-sang every word to every song. I was also convinced that, somehow Nick or John would catch my gaze from the nine-hundred-and-forty-second-row and instantly be mesmerized by my somewhat punky hidden beauty and obvious adoration for them. I would then be whisked up to the stage by an alerted security guard, and from then on be the tambourine playing “it” girl I was destined to be. I know – snap out of it, sister.
In a strange way, it kind of reminded me of my life as a Christ follower. There have been times over the years, I would eat, sleep and breathe my faith. If I wasn’t reading the Bible or praying, I was envisioning my life as a selfless apostle, sacrificing my worldly aspirations to aid those who would not survive otherwise (written with a hint of sarcasm, in case it wasn’t inferred).
I wish I could say that was my life all the time. However, many times Christ has been a laundered shirt – crowded by too many other things. Accidentally noticed, yet not completely forgotten.
I guess 20 loads of laundry aren’t quite enough.