There was puke on the front steps of the church again this morning. I don’t know how often that happens - I’m usually not the first one here - but I do know that it’s happened the last two mornings that I’ve gotten here first. Nothing like a good look at vomit first thing to start your morning off right.
I should add that it hasn’t been the best of mornings, even before I got to church. I usually get to sleep in on Tuesdays, but today a crew was scheduled to show up at 7:30 to drill a hole through the concrete floor of our bedroom to install a new HVAC system in our building. So I got up early and left early - but not so early that I wasn’t treated to the melodic sounds of heavy drilling as I brushed my teeth. Beyond that, I’ve been having a (totally normal, I know) burst of anxiety as my calendar keeps rolling on toward May 6: “This is the last week of February, and next month is March, and the month after that is April, and I could conceivably have a baby in April, and then my life will never, never be the same.”
And then someone threw up on our steps. Awesome. Last time this happened, I dodged responsibility and our business administrator took care of it when she came in. I felt like it was definitely my turn this time, no matter how disgusting. I headed back to the kitchen and set a bucket in the sink, filling it up with water. And suddenly a song came into my head, a song on the face of it stunningly inappropriate for the circumstances - Susan Werner’s beautiful, devastating May I Suggest: “May I suggest to you this is the best part of your life; this time is blessed and shining, almost blinding bright.” (Seriously, if you don’t know this song, go listen to it right now, before you finish reading this post.)
I sang a few lines out loud in the kitchen, waiting for the bucket to fill, and then hauled it out to the front steps, where a man sat waiting for our food pantry to open. I greeted him, and then sloshed the water over the mess.
“Where’s your maintenance guy?” the man asked. “He called off today,” I said, ruefully. We laughed for a minute, joking about how maybe our custodian, feeling queasy, had exacted revenge upon us, knowing he wouldn’t have to clean it up.
Then the man said, “Are you pregnant?” I nodded. “Your first?” I confirmed it, and he smiled. “Best part of your life,” he said. “You’re going to have the time of your life.” He went on to tell me that he and his wife had eight children and adopted two more, that kids will teach you patience and remind you how to have fun, that babies come to you “straight from Jesus’ side,” that Jesus said we have to become like children to enter the kingdom of heaven and that kids remind us how to do that. “You’re going to be great,” he said. “This is the best part of your life.”
These days are blessed and shining, almost blinding bright.
Because surely we can do better than this.