Wipe Your Feet
As a boy, my mother routinely reminded us to wipe our feet when we dashed into the house at full speed. She rarely even looked up as we came in. She just knew that brother and I would have dirty shoes.
Mom had good reason for concern. The empty lots and open fields were our playgrounds. And on the way home from our ventures, we walked through every mud puddle.
As an adult, I still clean my shoes before entering my home after a long day at school or work. I don't need my mother to remind me anymore—I get it because I pay for the carpet.
Recently, I've been thinking about the symbolism of removing the dirt from the world before entering my home. For years, I collected bad attitudes and negativity from the work world and brought them home to my young family. They never knew what my mood was going to be. Silently, hesitantly, they would size me up.
"What kind of day did he have? Can I tell him my problems? Can I share some good news? Will he snap at me for no reason?”
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