Is the Gospel Truly Good News for Everyday Life?Sýnishorn

Day 3: When Your Spiritual Tutor Is A Toilet

Indoor plumbing was a luxury in the Haitian village where my adopted daughter, Missy (full name Melissa), grew up. And soft, two-ply toilet paper? Even rarer. So, as you can imagine, when I finally brought her home to Tennessee, toilet flushing in our house with copious amounts of Charmin quickly became one of her favorite pastimes. 

Early on, as I observed the wide-eyed delight she displayed while watching massive plumes of paper spiral downward, my first thought was, “Isn’t that just darling?” I wasn’t even bothered when I had to call the plumber the first few times. But after awhile, wading through ankle-deep wastewater in my bathroom (for some reason, she’s partial to mine and has never once flooded the facilities in hers) and writing large checks to repairmen lost its allure.

I gave her cheerful lectures regarding the benefits of judicious toilet paper consumption. After that ceased to dissuade her from sending an entire forest down the drain during one particularly energetic (and unsupervised) potty episode, I grew more creative in my water-the-floor-no-more campaign and made up this catchy tune: “Five squares is where it’s at, only moms need more’n ‘dat. Tissue wads are so not cool, use single strips on the stool!”

Surely that would work, right?

Nope.

After various winsome strategies failed and my bathroom floors showed signs of warping, I employed more punitive consequences for her messy infractions. I limited iPad usage and confiscated one of her favorite Paw Patrol figurines. But nothing seemed to stem the tide.

Some months later, I was at my wit’s end—to put it mildly—when I walked into my bathroom, past my innocent-looking daughter taking a bubble bath (she also likes my bathtub more than hers because it’s bigger and “splashier”), and slipped on wet tile. It didn’t take me long to discover water gushing out of the commode like Niagara Falls. After a heavy sigh I morphed into the put-upon persona my mother used when I did something especially naughty as a child:

Doggone it, Melissa, HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU that You. Do. Not. Use. Giant. Gobs. Of. Toilet. Paper. Like. This? Dadgummit, I am So. Tired. Of. This, Missy! Why didn’t you tell me you’d stopped up the toilet again and water was all over the floor?  

The entire time I was plunging and fussing and mopping up that yucky pond with beach towels, I had my back to Missy. Within a minute or two–after my irritability had subsided enough to realize she hadn’t responded to my question–I turned around and was immediately convicted by the sight of my precious little girl sitting ramrod straight and staring at me mournfully as big tears streamed down her beautiful brown cheeks. I had all but crushed her spirit over something innocent and insignificant. She wasn’t trying to cause a mess. She was still learning, still adjusting to a new life here. To having an indoor toilet, for crying out loud. She hadn’t been willfully disobedient or disrespectful, so it wasn’t a heart or character issue. It was a plumbing issue.

Losing my cool over something so minor prompted me to slide to my knees and thank God for being an altogether different kind of Dad. One who never turns His back on us despite our proclivity to make those huge messes!

➤Who in your life needs to hear that, because of Jesus, they don’t need to fear God’s anger over their messes? Are you living like this reality is true?