My mom is coming to visit.

I spent the better portion of yesterday in the yard, weeding, hoeing, sweeping, and sweating.  My goal was to let Mom see the place looking a little more like a garden and a little less like the Amazon rain forest.  I filled five trash cans.  Twice.  Now, if Mom ventures into my back yard, I don’t have to call Search and Rescue to bring her out.  Oh, there are still plenty of weeds—I prefer to call them “wildflowers”—but they are no longer the dominant feature of the landscape.

This frantic rush to clean before Mom arrives goes all the way back to elementary days.  I used to get home from school about two hours before my mom, and there was often some simple chore she would expect me to accomplish.   Not repainting the house or installing carpet—just something simple, like a quick load of laundry or dusting the living room.  It would have been easy-peasy if I had done it as soon as I got home, but where’s the challenge in that?  I would flop on the floor in front of the mighty T.V. until about five minutes before she was due to arrive home.  Then, I would morph into a hero of myth and yore as I flew around the house to accomplish my task before Mom walked in the door and I was “busted.”

This pattern—procrastinate, then go like mad—has followed me into adulthood, cemented by repetition into a glaring character flaw. I have a pretty good justification for my pathetic behavior, if you’d like to hear it.  It goes like this:

1. I want to be a man who is good in a crisis.
2. As anyone knows, you must practice a skill in order to perfect it.
3. Therefore, I live in such a way as to perpetuate crisis, so as to get plenty of practice reacting to crisis situations.

Feel free to use that in your own life.  No charge.

These thoughts were bouncing around my head as I played Lewis and Clark in the family frontier, and they started to take a spiritual turn. That’s always dangerous for me.  I thought of the scene in Matthew Chapter 25, with ten bridesmaids preparing for the arrival of the bridegroom.  Their job was to form the processional accompanying the bridegroom, using torches to light up the way.  Big responsibility—very cool.  The only catch was, they didn’t know exactly when the groom would get there.  They just had to be ready when he did.

You know where this story is going.

So I’m picturing these ten young women, standing around in their teal and turquoise bridesmaid dresses.  They’re giggling, they’re telling stories, they’re getting restless, they’re getting bored, they’re getting sleepy.  Five of them drop off.

Then the groom shows up.  And their torches are out.

I get a ball of ice in my gut every time I read that story.  Because you see, I can imagine myself, running around like a maniac, trying to find oil to light my torch so that I can take my place in line and be part of the procession before it’s too late except it’s already too late.

The door is shut.

Now, to clarify a few things.  First, when I picture the above scene, I do not picture myself in a teal and turquoise bridesmaid dress.  That would be disturbing.  Second, I am a believer in Jesus Christ, and I have accepted his sacrifice for me.  Therefore, ultimately the door will not be shut in my face.  But God does tell me to be ready, to have my heart and mind prepared so that I won’t be embarrassed when he arrives.

I don’t want to be the schmoe at the surprise party who is still in the other room wrapping his present when he hears, “Surprise!”

So, point to ponder as you move through your day: what do you have to do to be ready?  If the sky split and Jesus returned right now, what would you be frantically trying to finish?

Speaking of which, Mom’s gonna be here soon.  I got things to do.