At my former church, I sang with the Friday Night worship band.
A typical service went something like this. After the first set of praise and worship music, we’d sit with the congregation to hear the pastor’s message and would return to the stage to play during the altar call.
This is what a typical service looked like to my bladder. When it heard the pastor wrapping things up, I'd have to dash to the ladies room. My bladder always had a mind of its own.
Traveling by car or by air, swimming, movies, banquets were all scenarios where pit stops, getting up or getting out was the norm.
As much as I tried to hurry and join my bandmates, there were nights when that simply wasn’t possible. Someone needed God, and I wasn’t going anywhere.
The first time this happened, a young woman was sitting on the sink with tears running down her face. Boyfriend trouble. We talked together and prayed.
The following Friday, a woman and her little girl came in. They were late for church, having come from the vet’s office, where their beloved dog Snickers crossed the rainbow bridge. Both wept. So did I, having been in their shoes more than once. And we prayed, thanking God for giving Snickers a long life with their family.
The Friday after that, I ran into an old friend who had lost her job. More prayer.
Week after week, more often than not I missed the altar call. I had another job to do.
Years later, He still sends his hurting ladies my way.
A few nights ago, Mom and I had Chinese for dinner. Before we left the restaurant, I of course went to the ladies room.
I could hear broken hearted weeping before I opened the door.
“Ma’am may I help you?” I asked gently.
The woman threw her arms around me and sobbed.
Her name was Marian. Her husband Jack had recently passed away with no warning. One minute he was there. The next minute he wasn’t. Marian became a widow while undergoing radiation and chemotherapy following a radical mastectomy. She was fighting for her life while she grieved for the man she loved.
The day we met, Marian dined alone for the first time since Jack passed away. She was seated at "their table." It was simply too much. I hugged her,rubbed her back and prayed with her, grieved with her. This woman had been through more loss in the last year than anyone should have to bear.
Maybe God gave me a weak bladder for a reason, a “God Thing.” The places that have become my office are called “restrooms” for a reason. They have more than one function aside from the obvious. They offer few minutes respite from what lies on the other side of the door.
God’s timing is perfect, as is His Master plan. And somehow my imperfect bladder fits right into it.
Pretty humbling stuff.
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