It was Sabbath morning. The house was in slow motion. Smells of coffee and toast wafted through the air. My three year old wandered between toys and forbidden objects throughout the living room.
The command came down from on high, er the kitchen, that the ceremony of the Clothes Challenge had begun. (have you ever tried to dress a toddler?) With the most compelling dad voice I could muster, the decree to dress the two-legged terror was pronounced.
“But dad!” The little voice of protest alighted on my ears. “I don’t want to put my church clothes.”
“Bug!” My voice raised slightly, the irritation dancing on my tongue, “its time for church and mom said you need to get dressed.” I repeated the request.
He quickly informed me that sweats with yogurt stains are "much more comfy" that stuffy old church clothes. I concur, yet mom did not share the toddler's sentiment. Round for round, the verbal spar continued.
“Why do I have too?” he squeaked. That particular argument makes for tempting parenting choices. But this tired father was no match for the word of God. My little man shut my mouth. And I was so proud.
“Dad, If God looks at the heart then why do I have to put on nice clothes?” Technically, he won the argument. But dad is still dad.