It's been there since Monday, and five people have traveled those stairs countless times since then. Not one of us has picked it up.

How it got there is anyone's guess. And everyone's denial (although we haven't discussed it). I'm pretty sure it wasn't Mike or me. That would leave three teenagers (or almost) in the running for the not-so-coveted title of Towel-Dropper. And let's face it, it could be any of them: it's the specialty of teenagers across America, the dropping of cloth things on the floor and hoping it won't smell as bad, but will decompose just as well as the compost pile, so they don't have to pick it up — ever.

My son's even made the extra effort to hide his dirty clothes in a neat pile on the far side of his desk, unseen from the doorway. It takes more effort than actually putting them in the hamper. I really don't get it, he's going out of his way to live in filth.

I constantly badger my kids about picking up after themselves to no avail. The broken record keeps screaming, "There are no servants here!"

And today, when I passed that kitchen towel for the umpteenth time, I realized it's still on the floor because there are no servants here. 

I think I might have just aired some dirty laundry, but that's okay. It's an uncomfortable glimpse into the pastor's glass house with the realization that we're more like you than you think.

So the goal is that our home will house a real servant or two sometime soon, the kind who do the important, not-so-glamorous work of seeing the forgotten, doing what's necessary, namely applying grace to messy situations. Nagging will only get me so far. I think I'll change my strategy to picking up dirty dish towels that have wandered from their calling in the kitchen in hopes that we, also, will wander back into our true calling of servanthood.

Until then, does anyone know where the Fabreze is?

I link this repost with Ann today, who's considering humility today, as we Walk With Him on Wednesdays.