One of my boys on a bicycle flies through mud with Dad running after, trying to catch up, while I stand at the door, testifying that Jesus is God.
God Himself.
Only One without dirt could cleanse us from ours and we're all filthy, from the inside out.
He was accused of blasphemy for His claims. He is Liar, Lunatic, or Lord.
He died for me. Took my place. And rose again.
The back door slams and my boy, out of breath, rushes up to me and says, "What did they say, Mom?" just as I close the front door.
I hug him.
"They don't believe."
So thankful for the Divine One. I can't handle my own dirt. I can't ride fast enough, and the harder I try the more it splatters on me.