My hair is clean, my skin is scrubbed, and yet I continue to stand there letting the water flow over me. I’m not ready to leave the comfort of this warm, wet womb of white noise and alone. I lean my head against the wall and let my eyes unfocus. I think about nothing. I revel in this moment of thinking about nothing.
This day, this shower, doesn’t hold tears. Just a holy awe for the quietness. An emptying of the busy that threatens to overtake.
I slide down the slippery corner of the square stall and sit. I hold my hands in front of me, palms up, like the freer souls do in church but I never dare because I’m too self-conscious and too baptist. I close my eyes and let the waterfall of healing ricochet off of my hands, splattering splotches of steamy wetness across my face.
And I breathe.
I don’t pray – I just breathe. I take big, slow, purposeful breaths. In. Out. I concentrate simply on the art of breath, the art of still. And slowly, my chin lifts. One breath at a time my chin slowly charts a path heavenward until my closed eyes are pointed to the sky beyond this roof and in my heart I whisper,
“God, are you there?”
In the silence I feel the answer more than I hear it. I feel the answer more than I see it. I feel it in every drop of condensation running down the walls. He is here. And that’s enough for now. So I stand up, turn off the water, get dressed.
And then saturated and cleansed with newness, I dive back into the deep end of dirty laundry, dirty floors, dirty dishes . . . dirty life. And I breath in. And out.