March 1, 2006
“There cannot any unclean thing enter into the kingdom of God; wherefore there
mys needs be a place of filthiness prepared for that which is filthy.” (1 Nephi
15:34)
When I read this, I thought of a mud-room—a little backdoor room where you can drop your stuff, take off your boots, and clean yourself up before entering the rest of the house.
So here we are on earth, like little children playing out in the yard after a nice long rain. Whether we are a persnickety child who tiptoes across the lawn or one who in their enthusiasm ‘accidentally’ runs through or falls in the mud, or one who delights in stomping through the mud and intentionally seeks it out for the sole purpose of wallowing in it—we all get mud on our shoes, and our pants, and our hands, and in our hair, and…
If you play outside after the rain, there’s no way to avoid the mud.
At some point in our play, it is time to come home for dinner. And there stands Mom at the door. “You’re not coming in here with those muddy feet!”
So you’re sent to the mud-room, where it’s a little cold and the light is dim—stone floor, drippy sink, no heat. You want to get inside to dinner and Mom is there to help you because she knows there’s no way yo can get all that mud off yourself.
So she says all you have to do is peel off those wet, muddy clothes and drop them on the floor. Just leave the mud and run to her, where she’s got a warm blanket and an even warmer bubble bath waiting for you, where she’ll wash you until every last speck of mud is gone and you are shiny and clean again.
But what do you do? You stand there shivering in the mud-room, wet things getting colder and colder, mud hardening, clothes stiffening. The longer you wait, the harder it will be. You know that, but you wait anyway.
Why? Because you also know that in those few moments it takes you to strip down and run across the room to Mom, you’re going to freeze! It’s going to hurt. It’s going to be uncomfortable.
And you also know that some of the mud behind your ears and in your hair has dried and hardened. And even though most of the bubble bath will be pure heaven, some of those spots will require a brisk scrubbing. And that will be uncomfortable too.
Some of us have been here before. We’ve figured it out. We want that warm bath and the dinner that follows so much, so deeply, that we remember to avoid as much mud as possible while we’re playing—always keeping the knowledge of bath and dinner near the front of our minds. Time in the mud-room is minimal.
Others of us, covered in mud, quickly realize the moments of cold and the required scrubbing are inevitable; it’s just part of the whole experience. We strip down fast, run to Mom, and get it over with. We willingly accept the cold and the scrubbing because the prize at the end is worth whatever it takes to get there.
Still others of us put off the run across the cold mud-room floor. We just don’t want to be cold. And we really don’t want to be scrubbed. We think if we stand there cold and muddy long enough, maybe the mud will just disappear. Or maybe Mom will forget it’s there and let us in anyway. We fear those moments of cold, resent them, avoid them—we’d rather stand and shiver while everyone else splashes merrily in the bath and eats the warm and scrumptious dinner that Mom has so lovingly prepared.
Unfortunately, this is me way too often. In my pride and my fear, I decide to stand and shiver, to whine and complain, whine and sob. Anything to avoid the temporary discomfort of letting go of the mud and turning to the warmth and the light.
Meanwhile, Mom is still standing there, holding the blanket to catch me, coaxing me at times, sometimes standing still and silent, watching me with eyes filled with compassion. Understanding my fear, my reluctance, my pain. And yet, mud is mud. She can’t let me into the house while I’m still covered in it.
Fortunately, when I finally decide the prize is worth whatever it takes to get there, when I finally let go of pride and kick off my muddy shoes, no matter how long it takes me to get there, when I finally go running across that cold mud-room floor, Mom will still be there with the blanket. The bath will still be warm and bubbly. And dinner will be ready and plentiful whenever I get there.
So it is with sin and the Savior. We all are stained by sin to one degree or another. And the Savior stands at the door, warm blanket in hand, bubble bath and dinner ready. All we have to do is strip off the pride and run to Him.
But you know what? We don’t even have to do that by ourselves. The Lord knows how hard it is to get those cold, wet, stiff, muddy clothes off. If we ask Him to, He’ll bring the blanket to us, help us out of our muddy things, then tenderly wrap us up in a giant warm, fluffy, sweet smelling comforter and carry us to the bubble bath.
Then He’ll let us soak for as long as we need to—so the scrubbing doesn’t hurt so much. And when we’re ready, He lifts us from the tub, towels us off, and gives us brand new clothes to put on. Then He leads us into the bright, warm kitchen to sit down and have dinner with all the rest of the family.
Yes, that’s a prize worth having; worth whatever we have to go through to get there.
