Finish that subject line.
Growing up my mother would begin with those words of encouragement whenever something spilled. As you stood in a puddle of milk with an overflowing cereal bowl you'd here her say "At least it's not oil!" This is because during one dinner hour, years ago, it was. She had set a plastic gallon jug of canola oil on a burner that she presumed was off having forgotten that it had only been that way a short while and was not yet cool. She realized almost instantly and snatched the jug only to have the melted base give way and thoroughly douse the kitchen floor. Needless to say, after hours of clean up the Keeping colloquialism "At least it's not oil" was born. Nothing ever seemed as bad. Not a wet bed, not an overflowed pot of rice, not even a sick cat. Cleaning up oil trumps all.
Yesterday I was speechless. You may not be aware but I love coconut oil; the organic, virgin, cold pressed type. I use it as butter, frying oil and in smoothies. It is my number one healing salve, hand lotion and hair serum. It's a miracle oil around here. And in chilly Alaska, it is solid at room temperature, only melting in your warm hands as you use it. In my haste yesterday and not noticing that the internal temperature of my home had risen to over 75 degrees, I most carelessly opened my jar of miracle and became the subject of an unforeseen anointing. Having promptly ruined my entire outfit I stood in a greasy puddle of tropical goodness with nothing to say. The life lesson adsorbed into my heart and mind as readily as the oil in my cotton skirt and will likely be as permanent.
The fact is, sometimes it's oil.
