Wayside Waterworks

Wayside Waterworks

September 12, 2017

Time on the road means numerous rest stops, at a different place most every time. I wonder how many different ones I have experienced over the years. Always, there are various degrees of space, convenience, and most importantly, cleanliness. Grateful as I am for the facilities, it is always with a sense of relief that I return home to my own familiar bathroom, even if I didn’t have time to clean it before leaving.

Today’s experience could have won a prize in the dubious category of perverse plumbing. A truckstop in Ohio, which boasted a sizable, mostly empty parking lot (unusual!), large open foyer, and clean, multi-stalled restrooms. I entered, along with a trio of beautiful Indian ladies in traditional dress. The first open stall offered a wet seat, so I pivoted and entered the next, only the find the same. And in the next. After the third stall offered yet another well watered seat, I entered, and using multiple layers of tissue, thoroughly dried the seat.

The floor was also wet, which necessitated careful maneuvering. The little red radar eye on the wall behind the porcelain throne winked knowingly at me. Perching gingerly, I immediately heard the pipes under and behind me beginning to clear their throats in warning. Before I could react, a geyser of cold water fountained up. NOW I understood why each seat was wet. As I shifted position the pipes again began their ominous throat clearing. I bolted to my feet and huddled in the front corner of the stall til the deluge was over, making the back of my skirt vulnerable in the process. How to reach for the tissue to make myself dry and presentable without setting off the plumbing again? Gingerly, with a wary glare at that evil red eye on the wall.

Out at the sink, one of the lovely Indian ladies grinned at me and burst forth with a stream of chatter in her language. I did the same in mine and we understood each other perfectly. As I left the room, yet another lady entered, and I saw her begin the enter, pivot, and re-enter routine. She looked questioningly at me. I pantomimed a liquid explosion. She groaned, I gestured, we went our separate ways.

I joined the Trucker in the lobby (only once have I been able to beat him back out there – he’s a patient man). Together we exited and started across the parking lot. Seeing a story in my face, he asked to hear it (now he’s a brave man). Before I was finished, he was shouting with amusement, earning us startled looks from passing drivers crossing the lot. Oh, it was worth a wetting to hear his rich laughter roll into the afternoon air.

There has been precious little laughter in our lives recently. The harsh, barren landscape we have traveled the last year has not produced much but the steady rain of tears. And those tears, watering the soil of our lives, have not produced the growth we are praying for, as yet. Hopes are gasping for their last breath, dreams appear destined for burial, cherished loved ones remain determinedly out of reach.

It almost seems wrong to laugh, when our hearts feel like they are damaged beyond repair. And most often, laughter, like any other emotion, still ends in the now familiar expression of grief. But for one brief moment laughter bubbled to the surface. Maybe one day it will be restored, along with the other parts of our lives that are now most too painful to touch. But if not, we know Who holds the future, and we cling to His hand through the storm and rain.