Puberty.
Yep, that's how this blog begins: puberty. It's a wondrous time of squeaks and squawks, among other things. It's a time of adventure and bike riding, making bad decisions, and trying to figure out who you are going to be for the rest of your life. In academic terms, this period is known as "differentiation" or by a person seeking "autonomy". Basically, the kid just wants to be able to say, "You're not the boss of me!" and it to be true.
Well I was not a normal pubert. My time of puberty began in a terribly harsh and humiliating way. To spare the details, which a lot of people know, (if you are one of those that don't know what I'm talking about, then keep checking back and I'll tell the story another time) I was in a car accident. The broken bones and damage to my body made movement quite difficult. I had a walker for 8 minutes, a cane for a couple days, and then it was my pride that helped me stand and walk. Well, because the accident happened in the mountains and because I was shirtless at the time, my body was covered in dirt, mud, sticks, and all around foresty. I had the Sequioa National Forrest plastered to my body. The glue to keep it on: my own blood.
This is not a pleasant experience. But I couldn't move. I could sort of stand and walk super slow, but any amount of flexibility was out of the question. So as a young pubert, I had to do one of the most difficult things a 14-year old could imagine: "Dad, will you give me a shower?"
So my dad (who is my hero) donned his board shorts, put a white plastic chair in the shower, and away we went. Try to picture that for a moment. 14-years-old and your parent has to give you a shower. Not once, not twice, but a few times. This isn't a cute scene of a baby sitting in the kitchen sink. Imagine how humbling it is to call your dad and ask him to drive over so he can give you a shower.
I've been thinking a lot lately about this specific time in my life. We were singing at church on Sunday and the lyrics said, "Word of God speak, would you pour down like rain, washing my eyes to see your majesty." All I could picture was Jesus washing me on that same plastic chair in the shower at our old house. Scrubbing my eyes, washing my hair, rinsing between my toes and behind my ears...
If it was humbling to have my dad give me a shower, how in the world am I to survive my Dad giving me a shower?
Yet, I desire it. And frankly, I need it.
So...Jesus.... I know where I can get a plastic chair. This will be a difficult for me, but will You give me a shower? I smell.
