This past weekend was gorgeous. Our small town is overrun with city folks snapping pictures of bluebonnets. They don’t know that the best ones are to be found in the front yards of houses where the owners never mow.
On Saturday, I was writing on my laptop on the back patio, with no wildflowers in sight. My daughter came outside to inform me that two people wearing suits were at the door, along with a child who was also dressed in a suit.
“Are they any of your friends?” she asked
“No,” I said. “None of my friends wear suits.”
“Are they religious people?”
“Probably,” I said.
“Should I not open the door?”
Without warning, I started to cry as I shook my head. “No. I don’t want to be saved today.”
What an odd thing to say. Especially for me – a Christian with a Christian-y blog. I know exactly when I was saved. My mom’s the one who did it, too, leading me in a prayer on the back steps of the garage after I’d been roller-skating and talking about big things that I didn’t understand, like death.
I understand it a little better today, especially since my mom recently died. We waited to bury her remains until the wildflowers came out. That service was last Friday. On Saturday (the Saturday the religious folks came by with salvation for sale) I was very, very sad. I didn’t want saving.
My theology is as clear as the spring sky. But my heart says, “Not today.”
