So here's the moment of the day:
This afternoon I decided to take a bath. It's been a hard week, nerve pain-wise, and our jacuzzi tub is great for relaxing me, taking the weight off (it's deep enough that I can literally be weightless in it), so I filled the tub with bubbles and sank in, even turned on the jets against my aching neck and back. Ah, luxury. I was alone in the house, Beve having taken the dogs with him when he went to fill my car with gas. It's one of our numbered arguments--the Beve, and all three kids, would drive 50 miles past the empty light coming on on a gas gage, whereas I start thinking about a fill-up when there's about a quarter of a tank left. I've only run out of gas once in my life, but that was a doozy, let me tell you, and NOT something I'd like to repeat--EVER. It began in rain with my oldest child beside me in Beve's VW vanagan, and ended with E (a fifth grader at the time) having to steer, while I pushed the car out of an intersection on a well-traveled (but unfortunately empty at the time) country road. I neglected to give her more than rudimentary directions, and apparently I was stronger than I look, because the vehicle ended up in a ditch with E crying, and me futilly hopping in at the last minute in a last-ditch (so to speak) effort to save it. Then there was some walking in a downpour, knocking on a house and my mother-in-law leaving the two younger, sick children to come and rescue us. I still have nightmares about the whole thing.
All that to say, I start nagging at Beve that I need gas well before it becomes an emergency. So off he went, the prince that he is, while I happily floated in my tub.
About twenty minutes later, the back door burst open, our bedroom door burst open and the bathroom door, not completely closed, swung wide to admit our two dogs, somewhat like small children, looking for their mommy. And there I was, naked in my tub, the bubbles having dissapated. Oh, did I mention that these three doors are in a straight line? And that the tub is completely visible from the street? Yep. I grabbed the shower curtain and basically wrapped it around me, and the dogs were peeking around the edge of it, trying to lap the water. And...my blessed husband, whom I love, I swear I do, whom I'd been yelling for since the first door was banged open, stood there, laughing at me. Laughing at our curious, interested dogs. And there I was in all my middle-aged glory. Not a pretty sight, my friends, NOT a pretty sight.
But after he drug the dogs out, closed every door, I let go of the shower curtain and sat back, thinking of how I use shower curtains with God as well. I try to cover myself up, as if He can't see the real me, doesn't know my flaws and flab, metaphorically as well as physically. Why do I do that? Why do I bother to pretend that I'm better than I am, more loving, less judgmental, more merciful, less selfish than I am? It seems to me that all the masks and coverings I put on hide no more than that shower curtain and dissapating bubbles. He looks down on me, sees me in all my nakedness, my made-in-His-image nakedness, and says, "You're the apple of my eye. You are engraved in the palm of my hand."