And I wasn’t the one getting sprayed with water unless you count the splashes from the protesting feet, flaying arms, and flying tears of my daughter, dousing me every few moments.
Our dual assault was on a huge knot in the back of her luxuriant hair. And the knot was winning.
My strategy in such battles—which happen every few months—is to sop the snarl of hair with conditioner and water and rake through it with a comb, piece by painful piece. Regardless of how gentle I am, it’s an excruciating experience for both my daughter and me–her twitching and screaming, and me restraining from muttering “I told you so” and “If you only…”.
Despite her protests, I must admit I’m often tempted to pull out my scissors and razor and just shave her bald.
When the two of us finally step out of the shower, and although I’m fully clothed, I’m almost as wet as my naked child.
This time, while I was wetting, conditioning, and cajoling the quagmire my daughter’s hair apart, something occurred to me: Isn’t this just like what God does with me?
When I can’t get a comb through the chaos of my life, I come to him, my head bowed in shame over the mess I’ve made of another situation in my life, neglecting the basic care of my heart.
Then I stand naked before him as he showers me with his love and gently sorts out the shambles I’ve made. It’s always a painful process—him combing, me twitching. He doesn’t have to say “I told you so” since I can hear his Word reverberating in my head. He doesn’t have to chime, “If you only…” since I know what I need to do. I’m not a child, for goodness sake.
I think I’ve got one advantage over my daughter, though. I’m learning to say thank you when he combs out my tresses—I mean, messes. I’m at least humble enough to admit my heedlessness and inattention.
I’m also learning what an amazing parent he is since I know he’s not even tempted to hack away at my life.
Hmm, these shower revelations are getting a little too intense. Maybe I’ll start taking a bath.