Holy Crap

He was only six years old, but the stench was unbearable. How would I manage a two hour drive without gagging myself or embarrassing him?

I'd already asked him if he had to go to the bathroom. "No, Daddy," he said. It was was true: he'd already gone -- in his pants.

"Are you sure you're okay?" I asked, wanting to give him another chance to change his tune. "No, I'm fine." I didn't want to make him more uncomfortable by pressing him for the truth. So I did nothing and we both suffered.

At the first I thought maybe he'd just had what the preacher's family growing up had called "an escape of gasses." (Which, by the way, seemed odd to me years later when I heard the same preacher have no qualms over his own "escape of gasses" in the public toilet. For myself, I'd always wanted to make as little noise as possible; he seemed to have little self-consciousness about his business behind the door.)

Anyway, it became apparent a few miles down the road that my little trouper had had more than just an escape of gasses. Some of those gasses ... weren't. And it was pungent.

Despite the winter evening I cracked the window and reflected on my now-sleeping son's predicament. I wished he hadn't been too embarrassed to admit to me his accident. I wished he wouldn't have to live with the uncomfortability of his innocent leakage. I wondered why he'd covered up the now-obvious truth.

When we arrived home after midnight my suspicions were confirmed. I patiently helped him clean the rather small mess. I was careful to avoid an insensitive remark; I could tell he was relieved. I thought, "If only he'd had the confidence to tell me sooner. I could have put his mind (and my nose) at ease a lot earlier."

As I put down my own sleepy head a few minutes later I couldn't help but muse: what is it about human nature that causes us to hide the fact that we've crapped all over ourselves? Especially that we hide it from the ones who may very well already know, and who may also be the ones most likely to be understanding and help us clean up our mess?

I thought about my own relationship with God. How many times had I sat in my own crap, uncomfortable, ashamed, embarrassed, hiding out? I hated how it felt, but feared how God would respond if I came clean about the dirty truth.

Would God scold me? Embarrass me? Humiliate me? Lecture me? Spank me? Of course not. Wouldn't God do for me exactly what I did for my son? Wouldn't he gently clean me up, calm my fears, reassure my heart and prepare me for another day? Sure he would.

I determined then and there that I would come clean about my crap sooner rather than later -- not after hours, or days, or weeks of misery. Certainly God would be as patient with me as I was with my son. Besides, I reminded myself, "Living in crap feels like crap."