From my room I hear the bathroom door close in the master bedroom and wait for the water to run. Like clockwork, it does. Sigh. My dad just got in the shower. Sigh indeed.
It’s really not his fault. I’d been awake for a couple hours now and had had the chance to beat him to it but I didn’t. It’s not his fault he likes his showers a billion hours long and a billion degrees hot. Really, I say this with no bitterness. That’s just the way he likes it. Fine. But what happens is I have to wait for the hot water. And right now, with the house being negative gazillion degrees, I have no patience.
My feet feel like they’re going to drop off any second. My hands have an unhealthy hue to them. My skin hairs are working overtime to preserve what little heat my body is producing. My nose, my ears, my teeth are cold. I’m still in my running shorts and I don’t want to change because I sweat an unwomanly amount while running. It’s safe to say I’m dying. What a drama queen, you say. I agree.
After two billion years, my dad finishes his spa experience, gets dressed and, on his way downstairs, peeks into my room, where I am sitting cross-legged and sullen, contemplating my bleak circumstance. He looks in, I glare at him. Ugh. I’m so angry and exasperated and blah at his selfishness (even though I could have showered earlier). I have to say something, point out his vice, expose him.
“It’s sooooo cold. And I can’t even shower.”
Silence. He knows; it’s been said before. Without a word, he walks away. Touché.
Hearing him on the stairs, I get up and follow him. I don’t know what compels me to when I’m so dddahh at him. I guess, who else is going to prepare breakfast for him?
I start heating things up and I know he knows I’m unhappy. I’m a brat. I scoop the rice, stick it in the microwave. I un-saran wrap the soup and microwave that too. I get the placemat, spoon and chopsticks. I get it all ready for him the way he likes it.
Then something happens. Along the way, the anger melts, the resentment sheds away. I lose the attitude, the sass. Somehow, somewhere in my heart, not having hot water isn’t such a horrible thing. Kinda.
All of a sudden I just want to love him. No, I love him. And I want him to know that.
“You want kimchi too?”, “You want me to make you tea for your throat?” (he’s battling an infection at the moment), “You want me to cut you some apple?”, “You wanna take a banana to work?”, “You want a pb&j for lunch?”. Yes, yes, yes and yes. And yes.
Suddenly, all these things are a joy to me, to be able to serve him, to ease the pain, to feed him. I’ve forgotten about the frozen feet, the yellowing hands, the overworked skin hairs. I’m bouncing off the walls, looking for something I can offer him, something I can do for him. I just want to talk to him and laugh with him and let him know I’m not dddaahhh anymore. So I do. And it’s so easy. Soooo easy. Literally no effort, no strain, no push. All I do is be. And Jesus has his way.
I’m petty and trifling and my heart is so small. But Jesus is another story, ain’t he? Jesus loves my dad, hot-water-fiend and all. My heart is his home so what can overflow but that love that surpasses frozen feet, complaining and injustice? Jesus, have your way.
I love my dad.
Easy peasy lemon squeezy.