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The unprecedented comedy was inspired by a pregnancy hormone otherwise known as “nesting instinct”. The home had already been renovated that morning, flowers had been transplanted into pots and an old rusty wagon that afternoon while the rocks decorating the snake-infested beds around the house had been rearranged to impeccable satisfaction.

And now, suddenly it was a family emergency to clean the Pontiac Montana.

While the pregnant one cleared out hidden nooks and crannies and the two tots disected the sacks of trash, I was handed a rag and a bottle of Fantastik to scrub out the rubber lining of the back window hidden behind the plastic interior walls of the automobile. Every possible hiding place for dust to immigrate to was attacked with vim and vigor and thoroughly purged. The germ content within the merry rig was reduced by about 100%, give or take a few decimals. We were creating a safer environment for the newborn who was on the brinks of entering the bustling family.

A visit to the local carwash was instated, as well as a thorough vacuuming just as soon as we could get the vehicle scrubbed. While tackling the grime hidden beneath the seats the thought crosses my mind, Just my luck, we’ll be washing the outside windows before we make our stop at the carwash… “Just to be sure!” as Courtney would say. I chuckled at my own silly little joke, crawled out from behind the seats and there was another bottle of cleaning solvent, a roll of paper towels and the words, “Let’s wash the outside of the windows too before we leave, just to be sure they get clean.”

There’s no use arguing with my pregnant sister. Even if I know it’s futile to scrub what will be mechanically scrubbed with intense pressurized suds and water in a matter of moments, she will not understand. If I don’t scrub the windows, she will, and then I will feel guilty for not helping even in the midst of my supreme knowledge.

I scrubbed the windows.

Enroute to the carwash a couple blocks up the street, we pulled into the gas station. Courtney jumped out, grabbed a windshield sponge, and gestured to the one at the next pump for me to employ. Apparently we were scrubbing windows again. Yep. Once again we applied the suds to the windows and rearview mirrors with all the muscles we could afford, before the actual drive through the turbo-clean carwash.

Like I expected, the carwash was more thorough than we could ever be. Even the spots too tough for our own physique were easily removed by the pressurized jets of water. The van was clean and gleaming. The external scrubbing we put into it didn’t have a speck of a hint of anything to do with its now sparkling status.

I can laugh at my sister. Being pregnant had a funny effect on her. However, I can’t laugh too hard without laughing at myself. How many times have I over exerted myself in trying to purify my soul and bring peace to my heart when there’s a Cross I can go to for complete cleansing and forgiveness? Where the miracle of Love can turn my scarlet sins to pure white? My effort is all in vain. No amount of scrubbing on my part can hold a candle to the powers of the fountain at Calvary.

Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow;
Though they are red like crimson, they shall be as wool. 
Isaiah 1:18

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