Child of Weakness

I sat behind her at the meeting. I didn’t recognize her. She’s very likely from a different church, I don’t know, and frankly I wasn’t interested enough to ask.

She wore black. Not strictly black, just mostly. There was some pattern, some coordination and some purpose but I wonder now if it were mainly to remain unnoticed. Nothing about her garnered attention. Her simple page boy hair-cut was not stylish enough to frame anyone’s face well, but it was fresh enough to show that she had some intention to present herself to others.

She didn’t seem dirty, unkempt or undesirable, she made no noise, no embarrassing sneezes or sniffles. She didn’t move her head a lot. Sitting behind someone you notice when someone does.

Sometimes sitting behind someone you notice just enough to make guesses as to the front of someone. And I did notice a few things. The little black hairs that grew in odd places on the back of her neck. I looked at them curiously and reminded myself of how often I have to wax my upper lip before I could draw the slightest criticism. The streaks of silver in her black hair. I have those, I have lots of those. She and I were alike then. We don’t color our gray. Yet, somehow I had drawn a subtle conclusion about her and I that gave me leave to think myself younger, happier and lighter in my soul.

As soon as I got up from my seat I had forgotten her mostly. As if the picture and focus I had chosen from my perspective of the meeting had closed in around her and she disappeared in the important points of the morning. Such a good meeting. So much to process. She, on the other hand, recommended little of herself to my memory and I was agreeable to our silent arrangement.

As the mingling began upon the close of the meeting I left quickly as is my routine. My children were downstairs and the clock was ticking on the imaginary meter I had paid for their care. I turned toward the stairwell and then checked myself and turned toward the restroom instead. It wasn’t an emergency but a visit without my little boys would be a good idea before climbing in the mini-van on a rainy day. As I entered the restroom there seemed to be a line but it moved forward as if each of the four stalls had been occupied simultaneously and were now being evacuated with the same synchronization. I could see that my turn would land me in the large handicap stall as the door was opening to excuse it’s current occupant. It was her. And I had guessed right about her forward appearance. She looked exactly as I had imagined and yet I can’t remember any details about her face as I type, I am trying to recall if she wore glasses. I only recall that she looked older than me, less happy and heavier in her soul.

As I stepped forward to replace her I saw something dreadful. The toilet was left unclean. It was not the usual splatter on the seat or even the more unmentionable left un-flushed. It was more dreadful than that. I don’t wish to even describe it lest I offend any of you, but for the sake of a clear understanding I must say that it was of a more personal and feminine nature. It wasn’t just a drop of something missed by it’s originator, it was a long single streak that began near the seat and ran down the front of the porcelain. I shuddered inside, but continued my motion to enter the stall. Were I to back up, to say something, to make any sign of being uncomfortable I could not help but embarrass her. She, a woman who seemed bent on remaining invisible, could be made a spectacle if I so chose to burden her with it. I turned in quickly to give myself privacy to think. What could I do? If I come out now I would still be drawing attention to someone’s horrid mishap. If I stay in, I have to address this problem. I can’t wait until everyone leaves. I can’t leave it and still use the restroom. I can’t imagine someone walking into this stall after me, thinking of me what I know of her. Everything else about the restroom and it’s objects were clean. I felt sure that she had made a simple mistake by failing to check everything as she went about her business and I convinced myself…

…that I would not die.

I squatted near the front of that bowl and I cleaned it. Without allowing anything other than toilet paper to touch my hands I used the water from the bowl and a thick wad of tissue to mop up another’s obscenity. I tried to work quickly and quietly so as not to make anyone wonder what was taking me so long or causing me to gag. I was surprised at my own reaction to the process. It was not a physical revolt that seized me, rather it was emotional. I felt so despicably humbled I was crying. I didn’t hold any malice toward that woman in the least, I knew she didn’t do it on purpose. I didn’t feel that someone else should be doing what I was doing, but I felt such a weight of responsibility as I wiped away her embarrassment, her shame and the issues of life she had no control over. It was puzzling how I could feel so disgusted and so driven at the same time. I barely remembered her, but I couldn’t expose her and in the process I had to clean up her mess to protect her image, my image and the comfort of the next person. I felt sure that there was a lesson in the experience but I asked God to teach me later, as I really just wanted to do my business and get out of there quickly.

Later, after the morning’s events were somewhat faded I found myself humming again. Once again, it was not a tune I had heard recently or one that I am caught up in often and I wondered if it’s words would enlighten me to what God wanted me to learn in the earlier incident of the day. The words came so easily from the depths of my memory…those black and white printed pages with shaped notes and four part harmony, worship encased in a book, brought to life by true worshipers that stood around me and now penetrating my experiences convincing me again and again of their value…

“I hear the Savior say
Thy strength indeed is small
Child of weakness watch and pray
Find in me thine all in all.

Jesus paid it all
All to Him I owe
Sin had left a crimson stain
He washed it white as snow.”

So distinctly I felt the degradation and abasement of my flesh. More clearly, I realized the act of humility that life and death on earth presented to Christ. Yes, my sins were horrid for him to bear, but what of my shame? My embarrassment was His to clean up. My mistakes were His to erase and protect me and others from. The most disgusting of my judgments, the most rancid of my mockery, the most ignorant of my suppositions, the most selfish of my demands, even the most innocent of my misconceptions…all were cleansed away. Before I had the chance to be accused, He bore their weight and refused to defend himself from their contempt. How it must have challenged him to be so disgusted and yet so driven.

In all of it, He knew me. He knew my innocent pleas and He knew my purposeful vengeance. He knew my worst and how much I would grow to hate it, and He knew my best and how long it would take me to see it’s inadequacy. Yet, He squatted down and without touching anything unclean, He wiped away the crimson stain that Satan had cursed upon my life so that no one can ever accuse me. No fingers pointed, no stones thrown, I am able to walk away protected from the curse I deserve.

I am a child of weakness, destined forever to be prone to leaving my imperfections lying behind me in a wake of good intentions. Yet, if I turn to look for them, they are gone. Each one, not just invisible, not merely unnoticed or even overlooked, they are wiped up, cleansed away by one who had no part in my fallibility. Even before I knew to ask, Jesus paid it all.