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J U LI E ’ S S TO RY - G LI M P S E S O F G O D I N E V E RY DA Y L I F E

Chores DIRTY DUTIES

SCRIPTURE STUDY

John 10:1-14

What do you get when you combine a potty brush, Mr. Clean, a ratty rag and a hasmat suit? Weekly chores! Chores have no redeeming value for kids. I’d rather be horse-whipped than don my potty-cleaning garb. Weekly house-cleaning duties came out of nowhere. One minute I’m sitting on the couch, mindlessly chomping potato chips, and the next minute I’m forced into hard labor.

PRAYER FOCUS Dear Jesus, Show me how to set aside my own needs and sacrifice for others. Let me be a selfless servant of Yours. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

I began my first “chore” Saturday my first week of school. I was so excited to go to first grade instead of lame old kindergarten. I sat patiently while Mommy untangled the rats in my newly curly-permed hair. I pulled on my lacy white socks all by myself and I stepped into my itchy new plaid jumper that matched my lunchbox. I even help Mommy by spreading Miracle Whip on my Bumble Bee tuna sandwich. As we approached the school black top, I held my breath, forced a smile and sucked in my stomach to meet the new kids. Nobody told me I had to attend school for FIVE DAYS every week for TWELVE YEARS. Who knew? I was flabbergasted. When I returned from school, I pouted, plopped my feet on the furniture in rebellion and left my leftover sandwich to rot in my lunch box. I sulked and watched Tom and Jerry pulverize each other with rubber mallets. I knew just how they felt. At least Jerry could escape to his rat hole. I, on the other hand, would have to wake up bleary-eyed before the sun came up, suck down my Malt-O-Meal and brush my bicuspids. The same hair-tangling ritual ensued day after day. (I must have been a violent sleeper.)

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Mom shoved my back pack in my hand and I dragged myself down the street toward the schoolyard. Didn’t I learn everything I needed to learn on the first day of school? I already knew my alphabet, I could count to a hundred, and I could sign my name with a smiley-face. What other survival skills would I need to marry a rich oil tycoon and settle down in the burbs? Days grew into weeks: Wednesday’s sloppy joe mystery meat, Thursday’s rainy-day dodge ball match, and Friday’s lukewarm fish sticks. One ray of hope made the whole ordeal bearable: slug-a-bed Saturdays! I could stay up late on Friday night gorging on popcorn and pulling my sister’s ponytail. I slept late and woke up to Aunt Jemima pancakes slathered in butter and Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup. After stuffing my face, I parked on a bean bag and watched cartoons until lunch time, bloated and burping from my pancake binge. Saturday afternoons were filled with tricycle riding, lady bug hunting and mud pie baking. All of my cherished pastimes came to a screeching halt when I was sentenced to hard labor by Mom and Dad. Chores were instituted by parents to be sure that all of the fun and adventure was sucked out of life. Dolly dressing was replaced by bed making. Sister chasing was turned into trash taking. Late sleeping became floor sweeping. My folks justified their demands by promising an “allowance” for performing these disgusting duties. But two nickels and a dime were small compensation for these indignities, especially since Kathy and I could rummage through the couch cushions and find pocket change for ourselves. Mom said chores would keep us out of jail when we became grown-ups. “Learning to apply a little elbow grease,” she said, “will keep you from turning into wine-o’s and bank-robbers. Thus the ritual Saturday scouring became a dreaded weekly event. Boys always had it better than girls when it came to chores. Dougie Scott, my next door buddy, got to hop on a riding mower and pretend to be a rough-shod, rebel-rousing cowboy roaming the range. Occasionally, he had to sweep the garage, but the cement floor was a treasure trove of washers, screws and squiggly bugs. Good times. His little brother Donnie got to hop on his bike and pedal down to the A & P to buy laundry detergent. His mom (a saint, in my estimation) put a nickel in his pocket for a Slim Jim to compensate him for his time and trouble. Girl chores were the worst! I discovered that if I closed my eyes and held my nose I could make a few swipes at the toilet bowl rim. The submerged brush might or might not dislodge the icky goo near the flushing hole. If worse came to worse I plunged my rubber glove into the brackish water and gave a quick swish to complete the task. My mom always came for “flush” inspection and if the loo didn’t make the grade I had to start all over again. That’s why I am now a certifiable germaphobe today. Folding my dad’s clean pants and my sister’s tee shirts were no problem. I pretended to be wrapping Christmas presents and they folded nicely and neatly. But boxer briefs and petticoats were much more challenging. I squished them in a ball and shoved them into the bottom drawer when my mom wasn’t looking. Fitted sheet folding was the worst. Where were the corners, where was the middle? I sat on the cotton puffs to crease them flat and finally gave up. So I popped the elastic sheet corner over my head and ran through the house pretending to be Casper the friendly ghost. (Fitted sheets were also perfect for non-slip wedding veils!) My last and most harrowing task was “corner patrol.” I shoved a dish rag full of Mr. Clean under the frig, behind the closet doors and under the bed dissolving dust bunnies, spider webbies and dirty Kleenex. Friday night was filled with nightmares about snakes and tarantulas that would burst forth to attack me when I bothered their Frigidaire lair. My little sister Kathy got all the cushy chores. She was given a cute little red oven mitt to “dust” the furniture. She flitted all around the house, pretending to spread “fairy dust.” The problem with dusting is that it never works. One simply moves the dust to another location. Mommy snickered and turned a blind eye to the finger-printed streaky coffee table. Oh, the injustice of it all! Dusting took about ten minutes. Potty duty took ten years (or at least it felt that way.) Bed-making was also Kathy’s job, but since she was too little to run around and crease the corners, Mommy always helped her. (I always knew Mommy loved Kathy best!) The only way I could annoy Sissy was too make those fitted sheets so wrinkly that she had to spend at least five extra minutes sheet-smoothing.

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Kathy’s last assignment was shoe-arranging. (Is that even a real job?) She wasn’t responsible for arranging anyone else’s footwear—just her own. For as long as I can remember, Kathy was a die-hard shoe hog. In preschool she pitched a fit in Sears if Mom didn’t buy her some Keds with sparkly toes. By second grade, she begged Mom to spring for the newest pink t-strap flats. By high school, Kathy was working at Shoe Heaven and spending her entire salary on inventory. Now her shoe closet looks like Jessica Simpson’s. Yep, for Kathy, shoe-arranging was no chore at all. Unfair, I say, unfair! My older-sister jealousy and pent-up aggression dissipated by noon just in time for McNuggets and a strawberry Slurpee. At least half a Saturday was better than no Saturday at all. As I look back on my early conscription into choredom, I discovered a disturbing but universal truth. Chores are about growing up. Every adult spends much of his or her life doing jobs they absolutely hate! No mom wants to clean a poopy diaper, but she suffers the stench because she loves her baby. No dad wants to bandage a gooey, bloody knee scrape, (unless he’s a surgeon or a vampire) but he does because he loves his clumsy son.

God said taking care of humans is like taking care of smelly sheep. It is definitely A CHORE. Sheep never mind, they get lost and they are positively untrainable. They fall over and can’t get up and they are scared of their own shadow. So how does God put up with us, His clueless little sheep? He does it because He is the Good Shepherd and gladly lays down His life for His little flock.

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Read John 10:1-14. Jesus describes Himself as the Good Shepherd. What are the “chores” of the shepherd? How does He care for His sheep? As believers, Jesus said we hear the voice of the Shepherd and follow Him. Have you heard His voice? Think about the wonderful gift of a God who would lay down His life for you. Spend some time meditating on that great gift and give Him thanks for His sacrifice.