Blessed are those who wash their robes, that they may have the right to the tree of life and may go through the gates into the city.
It's that time of the year.
Those few weeks each season that my house looks like a pillaged warehouse in the garment district.
I speak of the Changing of the Wardrobe.
With ten people in the house and an archive of hand-me-downs, each shift in seasonal temperature and growth spurts brings the need to go through mounds and mounds of clothing.
Even though my best intentions are to have all the backlog well organized and labeled, the task of trading it all out seems to result in chaotic jumbles of jumpers and jackets and jeans. Toddlers wander through and construct new ensembles of stained t-shirts over skirts, Christmas dresses combined with boys boxers.
And before I know it, the Great Clothing Exchange Project has spilled out of the room where I'm working and has left small mounds cascading down the stairs and secreted in the bathrooms and outlier items tucked behind sofa cushions.
Such is the condition of my house this morning.
And that doesn't include the weekly laundry accumulation.
We do tend to spend quite a bit of time in our culture on clothing. In the course of a day, I change from nightgown to running skirt and shirt to casual chore wear to dress pants and blouse to lounge wear. The kids practice multiple costume changes throughout the day, pajamas giving way to shorts to leotards and soccer cleats and swimsuits and princess dresses.
But there is a outfit I don't want to neglect.
It will be woven of the deeds of my life and laundered by the Lamb. It will be a uniform of unity and a inscription of individual intent.
The robes of eternity.
Washed, white, all-weather.
The white robes we will always wear. Worn after the Memorial Day of His coming. Always in season as the Labor Days of our strivings will be over.
I'm looking forward to that fashion. May we walk today with an understanding of what we want to be clothed with in eternity.