The front window after we cleaned it up. Sunday afternoon, when I came home from the woman’s conference I attended on the weekend, our front bay window was slimy with raw egg and bits of egg shell. Apparently sometime Saturday evening someone had spent a few wonderful moments tossing eggs.
I found a note on the table from my husband, “If you wait until I get home, I’ll help you with the front window.”
Between us we hosed down and wiped the window clean. Then we prayed that whoever did this thing would come to the decision that they’d rather eat eggs than throw them.
We tried not to perceive this attack on our house as a personal attack—whoever threw the eggs didn’t hate us, they just liked throwing eggs.
Having our house egged reminds me of an e-mail I received a while back. Someone had spent a few wonderful moments putting together an email that blasted me from five different angles and then told me she would pray for me.
I thanked her for her prayers and tried to believe she didn’t hate me—she just liked writing nasty emails. Nevertheless, I felt slimed.
I found a note on the table from my husband, “If you wait until I get home, I’ll help you with the front window.”
Between us we hosed down and wiped the window clean. Then we prayed that whoever did this thing would come to the decision that they’d rather eat eggs than throw them.
We tried not to perceive this attack on our house as a personal attack—whoever threw the eggs didn’t hate us, they just liked throwing eggs.
Having our house egged reminds me of an e-mail I received a while back. Someone had spent a few wonderful moments putting together an email that blasted me from five different angles and then told me she would pray for me.
I thanked her for her prayers and tried to believe she didn’t hate me—she just liked writing nasty emails. Nevertheless, I felt slimed.
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