I was writing about sin and then suddenly I was writing about laundry.

I feel the potential deep my atrophied heart for terrifying violence and cruelty; for apathy and rebellion, for broken windows and hurled insults, lashing out of my self-built cage of bitterness and secret grudges, for a wretched gnawing on bones, crouched in a dark corner. I have no trouble believing that I have a sin nature, that I got this stain when I was being woven and not from another red sock in the laundry. I have a harder time believing that I have been bleached in blood, because I keep acting like a stained and soiled sock and not a renewed, white one. I can't see myself in the mirror through this pigment of deceit that gets in my eyes. I am made new. I am soaked, scrubbed, wrung out and given a place on the clothesline of saints, a great cloud of witnesses, blood-bleached and billowing in the breeze.