Gentle Lent: When Life Interrupts

It was going so well. With only one more day to complete Week One’s Lenten cleaning when…

WHAM. Tuesday took a hard left.

Not simply a fast left where the tires squeal a little. NOPE, a hard left with my two metaphorical tires spinning in the air, the other two leaving a trail of rubber.


It started with a text from Counting Mutant.

I am at the ER. Just to be safe. Testing me now.

He did mention that the area around his appendix hurt last night. But that was in passing.

Scrolling down, phone had four more texts, which finished with:

They are going to give me some pain med… Won’t be able to drive home. Maybe should come on down.

The fact I checked my phone upon waking up was an broke part of my Lent fast. It is on my no cheats list. I loved curling up under covers for a few more minutes of rest while checking what the world was doing, but the habit began to sabotage my morning's routine.

NOW.. Feet launched out of bed. I raced through the morning chores, set GirlyK up with her school for the day and off to the hospital I went.

33 hours later Mutant came home. The short of it was, his diverticulitis spread to the right side of his colon, next to his appendix. 24 hours of IV antibiotics for him while I shuffled GirlyK between her brothers so she could make her commitments and a night of fitful sleep for me. My Fibro so overtaxed that emotions blocked much of my logical thinking.  A few tearful meltdowns and a broken broom cleared the way for logic to function.

The rest of the week spent tending to Mutant’s need for quiet rest, GirlyK’s school and me staring blankly at a wall. I work hard to avoid unnecessary intensity, so I was ill prepared for it.

Monday-my favorite day of the week-meant a fresh start. But, I looked at the devotions I had missed. The moments of meditation I passed by. The list of Lenten cleaning days left unattended.

Overwhelming failure flooded my soul.
Monday’s devotion was on the Rugged Cross. That it is at the foot of this Cross, I can lay all my shortcomings and failures. As I walked the dogs after and pondered Gentle Lent, Holy Spirit whispered,

“The Cross is not a place of  Do-Overs. It is a place of beginning.”

Burdens are not put down only to be rearranged. Burdens are put there to stay. I can pick up where I left off. No catch-up is necessary. In Divine Love’s redemption, I can let go of last week’s To-Dos and start fresh. There is no hurry in my recovery and rest from last week. In peace I can heal. Achieve balance and renewed energy and on Thursday, move on in my Lenten Cleaning list.

Of Toilets and Boys

Originally posted Feb 28, 2013


I had no idea. Raised in a house with one bathroom, five females and one male, I never realized the bliss I was in.

As chores go, cleaning the bathroom was a breeze. Heavy cleansers for the caked on hairspray and other nice smelling beauty accouterments on the counter. A quick scrub of the bathtub ring with scrubbing bubbles. Easiest of all was the toilet. A squirt of cleaner under the rim of the bowl, swish with a brush and flush. The bathroom sparkled. We spent twenty minutes tops cleaning the room.

I remember my Mom telling us about what her friends with boys said about their bathrooms. She would shake her head in disbelief and say, "You're Dad isn't that bad." The four of us would look at her and agree: how could it be so bad? A large mouthed bowl. The target is big enough. Boys like to shoot things so, how could they miss? Hitting a bulls eye is what they do best, just like Robin Hood.

Then I grew up and had boys.

When they were little, it was excusable. They were short, the lip of the bowl was taller. On tip toes they would aim and mostly make it. Little Cheerio targets would float, waiting to be sunk. M&Ms were the reward when the offending wheaty O melted to the bottom.Once in a while, the unattended seat would slam down on the tender weapon and screams of agony would shake the walls of the house. I felt sorry for them then.

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As they got older, it became a game:  How far away from the bowl can I stand and still make it? Or, my favorite;  Let's pretend there is a forest fire in the whole bathroom and put it out. The first thing in the morning cold land mines were special. I would giggle to myself, pull out the cleaner and get to work.

With pink rubber gloves on, bleach poured into the toilet itself. It is a bucket with clean water, right? Sponge dip into the cleaning concoction, the wiping and rinsing began. As the cleaning moves toward the baseboards, small yellow dots appear. Rinse sponge and re-moisten with germ busting liquid, I wipe the lip of the floor. Sitting back with satisfaction, I examine a job well done, only to notice streams of yellow on the wall. A snicker accompanies the reloading of the sponge. Scrubbing the lines turns into washing the whole toilet alcove. Perspiring, I follow the amber lines down the baseboards.  Sweating with discontented murmuring, the hidden puddles behind the toilet are scrubbed. Aching arms scour the floor joint and bolts. In full cursing surrender, the complete outside of the toilet is bathed. I am afraid to even look at the seat.

"I did this three days ago." I say to myself setting back on my haunches.

An archaeologist could find prehistoric bugs in the amber droplets encrusted at the bottom of the seat. The sponge is forced with a death grip into the bowl of bleach and wrung to within an inch of disintegration. Excavation begins and the grease in my elbow sprouts a leak. Soon all that is left is the fossil evidence. Laying the seat down, I scrape the lid, bolts and bridge that holds the bowl to the tank. Then disinfect the tank itself, including the top.

The simple task of cleaning the toilet took me 30 minutes!

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I thought, as the boys grew it would improve. I. Was. Deluded.

Discussing this over coffee with some girlfriends, comradere was thick. One girlfriend wants a urinal put into her bathroom so she can have the toilet all to herself. Another suggests a fly sticker next to the drain. This has been put into place in some public bathrooms: . Research shows that aim improves if men have something to aim at.

I need those flies. Maybe then, my daughter will understand what a clean toilet is.