The Toilet Tango

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Have you ever? Watched paint dry, I mean. Dries unevenly. Uneventful. Unclear as to whether a second coat will be needed to cover those first, hand-thrashing attempts to be Michelangelo on the wall. Between that and my electrical prowess? Look out! You’re liable to …well, you’re just liable.

Yesterday my commode backed up. Yeah, I know…TMI. Well, here’s the good news. The bowl wasn’t full of #2, like you thought. Just paper and LOTS of water. And it kept filling…gushing, actually, like a woman after a bad date. Oh, I don’t know, the toilet had lost it’s mind and I had to stand there and hold one of those thingies inside the tank until my good, patient neighbor could rescue me. I was in heels and headed out the door. Clearly not a good time to tango with the toi-toi. But kersploosh! The water sloshed over the side and all over the !! floor. Stop already! Jiminee! I was so not liking this as I glanced around to be sure there was nothing suspisciously brown lurking behind that wad of paper. So I risked electrocution by standing in a pool of water and used my cell phone – take me now, Jesus.

My neighbor must have had to drop everything he was doing, gear up – he just never knows with me – and in he walked. Do you know what highly technical task he performed, to fix my toilet? He flushed it seven times, and watched it. He peered – you know, looked – into the tank with that highly intelligent look he has. (It’s the one where he’s smothering a grin.) Yep. Seven times. “I don’t know, Sam. Looks fine to me.” And off he went.

What is it about these projects that completely and utterly drain me of energy, as well as common sense? Why couldn’t I have flushed seven times before screeching? That’s a bit like “Knock three times on the ceiling…” I don’t know, maybe I thought I was going to need a row boat? Can’t be sure. That’s the thing about owning a home with neither house husband nor Pops nearby. It’s exhausting. You can shake your head all you want, and say, “I told you so…” But! I wanted a yard, and I wanted to garden so bad I couldn’t hear you tell me how much work it was going to be!

I keep coming back to the thought that there’s beauty in the becoming. I’m pretty sure that God likes the process just as much as He likes the end result. I keep twitching and thrashing because my house is not perfect, my circumstances feel chaotic, the future is clearly unclear and will likely need a second coat of paint to cover my fierce and furtive attempts to be in control. And even though I lose my sense of humor easily and I get so serious and so, okay I’ll say it, uptight over the small things, I want to be laid-back, you know? I want to trust Him to work it all out. And I think He likes that about me. In just the same way that my neighbor smothers his grin at my demise, Father is so fond of me (and you!) and rather amused at the things that stretch me out of my comfort zone and help me to grow. And He doesn’t withhold the growth opportunities. He knows that, in time, I’ll laugh again and so He just lets me work at it until the sun comes out and all is right with my world.

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