Urine on Cement and Veils Getting Torn

And God said “Let there be light. And there was light.” 

I had gotten up early and made my way to a gazebo with the intention of reading this familiar passage from the Book of Genesis as I watched the sunrise. While you’re on a mission trip and surrounded by beautiful scenery, why not worship God in the midst of His creation? So I had my Bible app open to Genesis as I eagerly awaited the sun to begin its approach over the trees.

But then I heard a voice approaching.

Potash! Potash!

I bet I had heard this nonsensical word at least 500 times in the last 48 hours. I knew who was coming.

Potash! Potash!

I heard it again. Only this time, it was being yelled directly into my face. 

Potash! Potash!

This word left George’s mouth with the frequency of a drummer hitting a snare drum. You could almost keep time by it. And now the nonsense was ruining this time I was planning to spend with God in the midst of His creation.

This time, though, George was making motions as well. Rolling up his sleeve and pointing to the veins in the bend of his elbow. “Potash,” as I was hearing it, actually meant “blood test.” And George was trying to tell me, yet again, about the time he had to go and get blood work done. Before his blood test, he was not allowed to eat. I know that, partially because fasting labs are not an uncommon occurrence in the medical world, but also because George retold the story every few minutes.

George is going to turn 50 soon, but he has the mind of a three year old child. When George was an infant, healthy as any baby you’ve ever known, his parents grew tired of hearing him cry one night. So they put him in the chicken coop, where the chickens pecked his head until his skull was exposed. And they didn’t stop pecking. Consequently now, George is afraid of loud sounds such as sirens and fireworks. And of course, chickens.

George has lived in a community operated by Mennonites since he was taken from his parents at the age of four. Along with 18 other residents, each with varying degrees of disabilities, this is the only home he has ever known. 

I had helped plan a small mission trip to go and spend some time with the residents of this facility. Play games, make arts and crafts. You know. Do whatever needed to be done that wouldn’t require a long stay or any specialized skill whatsoever.

And now I sit attempting to read my Bible as George proceeded to tell me the same story that I had heard. Over. And over. And over. And over.

I thought perhaps I could still glance down at my Bible as George told his story. I was familiar enough with the details of George’s bloodwork that I could probably repeat some leading questions and make him think I was paying attention while I was actually reading.

And then I heard it.

Mama. Mama. Mama.

And up walks Butchy. Mama was the only word that Butchy could say. Ironically, he can only say ‘mama’ because his real mama did not know to give him milk as an infant and only provided him with Kool-Aid. His brain never got the nutrients it needed to develop correctly. So now the one word is all you hear.

As Butchy walked up, I locked the screen of my phone, seemingly throwing in the white flag on this special time with God in the morning. With George on one side going over his story and Butchy on the other side repeating his one word constantly, I probably couldn’t get much reading done.

So I decided to clear off the app. Save some battery. Why waste it now, after all, if I’m not going to get to read about God’s creation in the midst of His creation?

But instead of clearing off the app, I accidentally just scrolled down a few verses. And instead of reading Genesis 1:3, I found myself reading Genesis 1:26. Let us make man in our own image.

Then I got it. I was, in fact, reading about God in the midst of his creation. After all, that sunrise was created by God, but not in His image. But George was created in His image. Butchy was created in His image. Their presence was more beautiful than the sunrise.

So I gave it another shot. Until it happened.

Butchy begins to visibly urinate. I’m not sure sure how adult diapers work. Maybe it was too full. Maybe it had burst. Maybe his business had made its way to the portion that was not absorbent. I’m not sure. But I am sure it was happening. 

I immediately flashed back to my questionable decision to wear sandals, as I curled up my toes to avoid getting them exposed to Butchys urine as it began to make its way down his leg and onto the cement.

Mama. Mama. Mama.

My holy moment had been interrupted by the profane. My sunrise had been interrupted by urine.

Or had it?

My mind went to Matthew 27. The veil that kept the holy from the profane was ripped. Upon the death of Jesus, the old system was done. No longer was it the perfect that were allowed in God’s presence. His presence was not just for the physically perfect. The mentally perfect. The spiritually perfect. The ones with perfect genes. Or the ones with perfect jeans.

The holy had not been interrupted by the profane. The holy had invaded the profane. And that’s exactly what was happening in my presence. Now. The veil was ripping as Butchy’s bodily fluids approached my feet.

The sound of the urine trickling down the cement sounded an awful lot like a veil being torn. The words of Matthew 25:40 were ringing true right in front of me, as I watched Jesus wet himself.

So there I sat. Still trying to allow my feet to avoid the urine flooding ever closer to my foot. 

But still worshipping God. Only now, it was worshipping with His most prized creation. George and Butchy. Made in His image.

No Answers Allowed

No Answers Allowed

A question is essentially an invitation. 

Well obviously some questions are invitations. 

Wanna come over? Most would interpret that as an invitation to come over.

Will you marry me? That’s typically an invitation to be wed. 

But sometimes the invitation is more subtle. And regardless of the depth of the question, the invitation remains. The invitation to grow closer together. The invitation to know one another on a more intimate level. The invitation to hear someone ask another question in return.

What’s your favorite ice cream? What are your thoughts on God? Who was your favorite band when you were a teenager? What part of the political spectrum appeals most to you? What do you think Jesus meant when he said all those things he said? 

All questions are really an invitation to dance. Dance a verbal dance, of course. But dance nonetheless. And nothing kills the invitation of a question quite like an answer.  The answer is the final note of the song, ensuring that the dance is over.

But what if I want to keep dancing?

A question is asked and hangs in the air like a cloud. But not one of those clouds that seem to move through the sky, but one of those clouds that seems like you have it tied to a string and the other end of the string is firm within your grasp. 

And then the answer is given. And it’s final. And that’s it. The cloud dissipates before your eyes.

When the question is asked, the possibilities are endless. Infinite, really. Maybe not infinite. I’m sure someone much smarter than me has made an algorithm to tell exactly how many possible answers every question has. But I don’t care to know it. Know why? I’d rather ask the question ‘how many answers could a question have’ and then sit back and wonder about it.

So this will be a place for questions. Infinite possibilities. Where the dance just keeps going. But if you’re needing a final note, the last chord to play so something will resolve, you may want to look elsewhere.

No answers allowed.