Mastered . . . Again

Some lessons take longer to learn than others. Two weeks ago my brand new bottle of liquid Tide vaulted itself off of the washing machine. I was oblivious to this act of rebelliousness since I was in the middle of playing with Baby Girl and did not hear the loud thump that must have occurred. Some time later my younger son notified me that I “needed to come here now, Mom!” And there it was: blue goo seeping underneath my washer and dryer and creeping toward the coat closet. Many, many towels and much mopping later, I had floors you could lick ice cream off of – if you were of the mind to do that sort of thing.

It happened again. Yesterday as the princess was blissfully napping, and I was researching presidents with my boys, I heard a loud thud coming from the vicinity of the laundry room. My hopeful self thought, “Surely not!”

Surely. The Tide is now my master.

I will not put it on the washing machine again.
I will not put it on the washing machine again.
I will not put it on the washing machine again. . .

(In case you were wondering, I used copy/paste for that. I only tell you that because I actually typed out half of the second sentence before I realized how stupid that was.)

This story really does have a point; I just went around the barn to get to it. I tend to find life lessons in trivial events. This was one of them. It left me wondering just how many lessons I’ve taken awhile to learn. Harder lessons. Not the kind that a few towels will mop up, but the kind that are drenched with tears and soaked with regret. My answer: Too darned many. How many times have I found myself repeating the mantra:

I will not ________________ again.
I will not ________________ again.
I will not ________________ again.
I will not ________________ again . . .


Lord, be my Master, and may I learn my lesson the first time.

Mastered . . . Again