forward on!
I'm compiling a book of my short stories, from the last seven years. It's so much fun! A lot of my stories aren't making the cut, because I want only the funny ones. I've written a lot of soul searching pieces. And a lot of stuff that just makes me cringe. But my favorites are the funny ones, and I can't wait for you to read them again. This is one story that I'm not going to include in my little book, but still love. Thanks for reading!
slumdog bathing
Hot water rises from my pristine white garden tub and the
scent of rose and chamomile bubble bath presses into the air. My mind flashes a
scene from Slumdog
Millionaire of the brother covered in money in a grungy bathtub, moments from
committing suicide, but I push it away. Big brown eyes of the small children in
the streets of India, waiting.
I don't take anything for granted, not this bath, not this bathtub, not this bubble bath. I add in some bath oil beads. I'm surrounded by the soft whiteness of my master bath, with it's sea glass rugs and sea shells from trips to the beach. The foaming white bubble bath runs down my tan healthy arms. But the heat of this water is never hot enough to erase the decay of my soul.
I'm thinking of those kids pressed into the streets in the movie. I'm thinking of a youtube video of children living on train tracks and moving their makeshift home every time a train comes through, then back again. I'm thinking of the stale, lifeless prison barracks my brother lives in now. The shower he shares with so many others, that brings the only relief when temperatures rise well above 100 degrees in the summer.
I look at my toes, carefully painted in pale pink with delicate black and metallic silver leaves on my big toes that suggest feathers. I think of the last time I saw my brother, of how he ate zingers or something out of the vending machine on his side of the glass. The crumbs gather on the greasy window sill and he jabs at them hungrily with his fingertips. I look at him wordlessly, this from a man who carried a "man bag" with hand disinfectant in it to work. He's not even aware of his behavior. My heart slips a little more as I smile at him.
I don't take anything for granted. Other suburban moms might be enjoying a similar bath, calculating what needs to be done next in their bathrooms. Paint the cabinets. Replace linoleum flooring with tile. Find suitable curtains for windows. A tear slips down my cheek. It's not who I am. But it is who I was.
Soon it will be a year since I watched my brother be handcuffed feet away from me, the friday before Mother's Day. I remember going back to the budget hotel suite I shared with my parents and curling up on the pull-out couch, still wearing the black dress I wore to the courthouse. I put on David Crowder's "Never Lets Go" as my parents quietly leave the suite, and lie there and cry. Then we go out to Chili's and eat huge hamburgers. Grief is weird.
It is loss, grief, for sure, and I am grateful for the spiritual brothers I still have around me. And always the bittersweet love of Jesus. The Lion who never leaves our side. The One who makes me laugh the most, who lets me cry into the warmth of His heart, and who defends me so fiercely it can take my breath away. Do you know Him?
My pajamas are soft flannel blue striped ones, which match my bathroom. My slippers are dark brown cocoa adorned with silk bows on their plush peep toes. I walk down my hallway newly painted a warm mocha color. My brother has two pairs of underwear, which he washes in a sink with God knows what. He hangs them out to dry over his bunk, but that is not allowed - and this time the guard takes them away while he naps. The commissary "employees" don't believe that he only has one pair now, so he can't buy anymore. Trading is a way of life in prison. He will buy snacks and find someone who can buy a pair and trade for them.
My brother is paying a price for his actions. I think of the children in India, waifs with tumbled hair in Slumdog Millionaire. My heart can't care enough. I can't be troubled enough. "I want to wake up kicking and screaming," as the Switchfoot song goes. But many days I can't be bothered. The heat from the hot water in my bath isn't hot enough to clean the decay of my soul. Jesus.
"I, the LORD, have called you in righteousness; I will take hold of your hand. I will keep you and will make you to be a covenant for the people and a light for the Gentiles, to open eyes that are blind, to free captives from prison and to release from the dungeon those who sit in darkness.
"I am the LORD; that is my name! I will not give my glory to another or my praise to idols.
See, the former things have taken place, and new things I declare; before they spring into being I announce them to you." Isaiah 42, vs. 6-9 (NIV)
I don't take anything for granted, not this bath, not this bathtub, not this bubble bath. I add in some bath oil beads. I'm surrounded by the soft whiteness of my master bath, with it's sea glass rugs and sea shells from trips to the beach. The foaming white bubble bath runs down my tan healthy arms. But the heat of this water is never hot enough to erase the decay of my soul.
I'm thinking of those kids pressed into the streets in the movie. I'm thinking of a youtube video of children living on train tracks and moving their makeshift home every time a train comes through, then back again. I'm thinking of the stale, lifeless prison barracks my brother lives in now. The shower he shares with so many others, that brings the only relief when temperatures rise well above 100 degrees in the summer.
I look at my toes, carefully painted in pale pink with delicate black and metallic silver leaves on my big toes that suggest feathers. I think of the last time I saw my brother, of how he ate zingers or something out of the vending machine on his side of the glass. The crumbs gather on the greasy window sill and he jabs at them hungrily with his fingertips. I look at him wordlessly, this from a man who carried a "man bag" with hand disinfectant in it to work. He's not even aware of his behavior. My heart slips a little more as I smile at him.
I don't take anything for granted. Other suburban moms might be enjoying a similar bath, calculating what needs to be done next in their bathrooms. Paint the cabinets. Replace linoleum flooring with tile. Find suitable curtains for windows. A tear slips down my cheek. It's not who I am. But it is who I was.
Soon it will be a year since I watched my brother be handcuffed feet away from me, the friday before Mother's Day. I remember going back to the budget hotel suite I shared with my parents and curling up on the pull-out couch, still wearing the black dress I wore to the courthouse. I put on David Crowder's "Never Lets Go" as my parents quietly leave the suite, and lie there and cry. Then we go out to Chili's and eat huge hamburgers. Grief is weird.
It is loss, grief, for sure, and I am grateful for the spiritual brothers I still have around me. And always the bittersweet love of Jesus. The Lion who never leaves our side. The One who makes me laugh the most, who lets me cry into the warmth of His heart, and who defends me so fiercely it can take my breath away. Do you know Him?
My pajamas are soft flannel blue striped ones, which match my bathroom. My slippers are dark brown cocoa adorned with silk bows on their plush peep toes. I walk down my hallway newly painted a warm mocha color. My brother has two pairs of underwear, which he washes in a sink with God knows what. He hangs them out to dry over his bunk, but that is not allowed - and this time the guard takes them away while he naps. The commissary "employees" don't believe that he only has one pair now, so he can't buy anymore. Trading is a way of life in prison. He will buy snacks and find someone who can buy a pair and trade for them.
My brother is paying a price for his actions. I think of the children in India, waifs with tumbled hair in Slumdog Millionaire. My heart can't care enough. I can't be troubled enough. "I want to wake up kicking and screaming," as the Switchfoot song goes. But many days I can't be bothered. The heat from the hot water in my bath isn't hot enough to clean the decay of my soul. Jesus.
"I, the LORD, have called you in righteousness; I will take hold of your hand. I will keep you and will make you to be a covenant for the people and a light for the Gentiles, to open eyes that are blind, to free captives from prison and to release from the dungeon those who sit in darkness.
"I am the LORD; that is my name! I will not give my glory to another or my praise to idols.
See, the former things have taken place, and new things I declare; before they spring into being I announce them to you." Isaiah 42, vs. 6-9 (NIV)