For about ten years now, Katharyn, Lori, and I have met for a girls’ weekend. Beach condos, New York City hotels, and even our homes have all played host to our once-a-year estrogen-charged escapes.
This year, we chose Kansas City for our latest installment. We arrived late Thursday night to discover our lovely suite overlooked the Country Club Plaza, yes; my expectations and excitement were brimming. The only thing I anticipated more than the shopping was the emptying of my brimming bladder; yes, it had been a long drive.
After checking in, I raced into our hotel bathroom and quickly shut the door. Well, I tried to shut the door. Something had lodged beneath it and the door was jammed. I reached down to dislodge the assumed washcloth, grasped a wad of fabric in my fist—and screamed. Katharyn and Lori rushed to the scene for a “sight” inspection. I knew for certain when Katharyn yelled, “Gross!” and Lori groaned. I held an anonymous pair of men’s underwear in my hand. We all marched from the restroom to the phone. I pressed zero and connected with the young man at the front desk.
“How may I help you?” he said in a smooth, professional voice.
“There’s men’s underwear in my bathroom!” I exploded.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” (What else could he say?)
I stumbled and stuttered until he interrupted with “I’ll send someone up.” And so we stood near the door as far from the offending garment as possible, and waited for the attendant. Five minutes…ten minutes…twenty minutes passed—and no one came to our rescue. I could no longer restrain my righteous indignation. This was not right. Girls’ weekend had been violated.
The “strictly forbidden” list included testosterone, remote controls, football, and yes, men’s underwear.
As Katharyn and Lori sat by the door, I quickened my pace back to the bathroom, picked up my cane, and stabbed those “tighty-whities” with the tip of my walking stick. Like a spear gun in the belly of its prey, I proved to that mass of cotton who was boss. I marched toward the door, with cane pointed toward the heavens, and commanded, “Katharyn, open the door!” She did, and out flew the skivvies into the hallway.
We roared with laughter as I again picked up the phone and informed the delinquent desk clerk that the underwear was now in the hallway. Katharyn watched through the peephole, and sure enough, hotel personnel arrived in five minutes to disinfect the hallway.
So what’s the point of this story? There are some things in our lives that simply don’t belong. Men’s Fruit of the Loom underwear doesn’t belong in a girls’ bathroom on girls’ weekend. It’s out of place, out of order, out of bounds, out of sync, and out of the question that we would leave it lying around. I guess that’s pretty obvious. But it should be just as obvious that a daughter of the King would never tolerate such unmentionables as pride, envy, gossip, hidden malice, or any other such baggage lying around in her personal life.
It doesn’t fit. It doesn’t belong. It’s an offense. These things get in the way of what God has planned for you.
Instead of enjoying the pleasure of the palace as God intended, the baggage of sin weighs you down and you end up in a pasture—becoming something and someone you were never intended to be.
That’s when it’s time for real righteous indignation.
Don’t hover and huddle by the door, waiting for sin to march itself out of your life. Instead, stride forward by faith. Stare it down, use the tools God gave you to conquer it, and then fling it out of your life. You might need someone to open the door for you, or walk beside you, but don’t let precious plans and your purposeful life be derailed by something that doesn’t belong there.
How do you rig your life of the unmentionables? Leave a comment here.