Move Out

You should've seen me on packing day. I paced back and forth in front of the ladies who had come to help. I was the commander, readying the troops. My feather duster was tucked under my arm like a riding crop as I began my moving address: "I'd like to thank you for signing on for this mission. Some of you might find yourselves waning in the heat of the battle. Others may discover new courage. And some of you... [sniff]... might not be coming home."

Okay, that was for drama. They all made it home. Not without battle scars, however. It was frightening; I didn't have mere dust bunnies on top of my china cabinet. These things looked more like fuzzy TANKS.

Thankfully I had provided the women with some basic training. I decided I could desensitize them before they got to the house by taking them for a ride in my minivan. On the way to my tank-filled home, one asked, "Is this a pickle in the cup holder?"

"My kids don't eat pickles. I think that's a hot dog from last baseball season." She had to go home right after she regained consciousness. The rest of the ladies were fine after they put their heads between their knees. Still, I couldn't bring myself to make them look in the glove compartment. I think the Geneva Convention has rules against such atrocities.

Several were overcome during the chemical warfare phase of the moving battle. It's a common result of mixing the chemicals needed to fight dust tanks with the ones needed for that scum that gathers over the stove. They're recovering. The therapy for post-packing trauma syndrome (PPTS) is also helping. Thankfully, the flashbacks are starting to subside.

There was a particularly perilous moment in the kitchen, however, when one of the ladies made a gruesome discovery. It was a potato that had fallen behind a pile of junk in one of the cabinets. But it was no longer legally a potato. It looked like a brown, raisiney grenade. We were all distressed when we discovered that the local bomb squad doesn't respond to potatoes.

I was amazed that no one in my family had ever gotten a whiff of the rotting potato/grenade. We never had even a hint that it was back there shriveling. Believe it or not, there wasn't even any mold on the little sucker. I guess it's still not surprising that not one of the packing ladies wanted to touch the thing. But before we could move, the dead spud had to go.

In the same way, isn't it amazing the spiritual dirt we can have hidden away? Little things can be rotting--shriveling right under our noses--and we don't so much as catch a whiff. It's a spiritual battle and the enemy is ever-ready to lob his bombs. He loves to see us rendered fruitless. Sometimes he schemes a sneak-attack. It's not the kind of attack that immediately blows up in our faces, but rather hidden places of rottenness, quietly shriveling our spirits.

Romans 6:13 says, "Do not offer the parts of your body to sin, as instruments of wickedness, but rather offer yourselves to God, as those who have been brought from death to life;..." (NIV) We can ignore those pockets of disobedience we've tucked away, or we can offer every part of ourselves to God. Before we can move to a closer walk with him, we shouldn't be surprised if he pulls out that "potato" and says, "We really have to take care of this before we can move on."

I've moved on, into a clean, new home--completely free of shriveled potatoes. When we allow the Father to cleanse us from sneaky rottenness, we can enjoy the same kind of clean, sweet closeness with him.

So go ahead. Plan a spiritual military action of your own. Execute Recon Plan "Toss-out the-potato!" Ready? Move out!

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Contributed by Rhonda Rhearrhea@juno.comRhonda Rhea writes for dozens of great Christian publications and speaks at conferences and events across the country. You can find her new book, Amusing Grace, at your local Christian bookstore. Rhonda's husband, Richie Rhea, is a pastor in Troy, Missouri. You can reach them through her Web site atwww.rhondarhea.net