Changing a diaper sums up a lot of motherhood. You put one on, only to take it off and put another one on. It's a pretty crummy, stinky job. It's almost too mundane to talk about.
I enjoyed the week I spent on the plastics service during my surgery rotation in medical school, so much so that I thought very seriously about going into plastics. But I remember thinking how ironic it was that the people who enjoyed reconstructing faces and debating the most cosmetic way to close a laceration also had to run the decubitus ulcer service. Of course, they got the lowest people on the totem pole to do it, me and the intern. Decubitus ulcers are what happens when bedridden patients lie in their own waste: the skin on their butts get irritated, break open, and inevitably get infected from nearby poop. If surgical intervention becomes required, it usually involves skin flaps, thus the plastics consult. Our job on the service was to see and treat every decubitus ulcer in the entire hospital.
I remember my intern was this incredibly nice, soft-spoken guy, despite being worked to death. The two of us would gown and glove up, and be hit with this absolutely putrid odor as we walked into the room, the smell of human waste mixed with dead flesh. I would help him log-roll the patient over and peer underneath while holding my breath.
Well, I never went into plastics, but here I am, still in the business of keeping bums clean. I remember hearing a Tim Keller sermon on work, and how to God, the person who wipes a counter clean is as important as the neurosurgeon--if that person didn't wipe that counter clean, we would all die. Changing a diaper is like that--if I didn't do it, they would all get decubitus ulcers, become septic and die (I should threaten Eric with that when he insists he has "no poop!" despite the massive stink emanating from his rear). There's a strange sort of weighty glory to that, to knowing that God makes absolutely no distinction in importance the way the world does; that what I do is just as vital to the survival of humankind, though not as well compensated or visible.
And boy, can I change a diaper well. I am probably at the height of my diaper-changing career. I can detect the tracest sent of poop, pick up the most subtle pooping expression (slight reddening of the face and look of concentration). I can whip that sucker off, wipe off microscopic residue, slap on Desitin in the most strategic spots, and get a new one on and fitted perfectly in record time. I can package up dirty diaper and wipes without contaminating anything, and dunk it into the trash can with a better free throw average than some professional NBA players. And I can do it all while singing a very loud, artificially cheerful song to distract a wriggling toddler.
What God cares about is not what we do for our work, but who we are doing it unto: "you are serving the Lord Christ" it says in Colossians 3. And earlier, "whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men." That means changing diapers can be something done whole-heartedly, as absurd as that sounds. That means there is something of worship in the repetitive, everyday things of motherhood, in the most stinky, unwanted tasks. I am saying, here, God, is this diaper I am changing. Here is this being you have given me that I am keeping alive; here I am being present, in this way I may very much not want to be present. Here I am believing that this child understands it as my love to him and to you. And here I am hoping in ten years, I'll never have to look at another dirty bum again.
I enjoyed the week I spent on the plastics service during my surgery rotation in medical school, so much so that I thought very seriously about going into plastics. But I remember thinking how ironic it was that the people who enjoyed reconstructing faces and debating the most cosmetic way to close a laceration also had to run the decubitus ulcer service. Of course, they got the lowest people on the totem pole to do it, me and the intern. Decubitus ulcers are what happens when bedridden patients lie in their own waste: the skin on their butts get irritated, break open, and inevitably get infected from nearby poop. If surgical intervention becomes required, it usually involves skin flaps, thus the plastics consult. Our job on the service was to see and treat every decubitus ulcer in the entire hospital.
I remember my intern was this incredibly nice, soft-spoken guy, despite being worked to death. The two of us would gown and glove up, and be hit with this absolutely putrid odor as we walked into the room, the smell of human waste mixed with dead flesh. I would help him log-roll the patient over and peer underneath while holding my breath.
Well, I never went into plastics, but here I am, still in the business of keeping bums clean. I remember hearing a Tim Keller sermon on work, and how to God, the person who wipes a counter clean is as important as the neurosurgeon--if that person didn't wipe that counter clean, we would all die. Changing a diaper is like that--if I didn't do it, they would all get decubitus ulcers, become septic and die (I should threaten Eric with that when he insists he has "no poop!" despite the massive stink emanating from his rear). There's a strange sort of weighty glory to that, to knowing that God makes absolutely no distinction in importance the way the world does; that what I do is just as vital to the survival of humankind, though not as well compensated or visible.
And boy, can I change a diaper well. I am probably at the height of my diaper-changing career. I can detect the tracest sent of poop, pick up the most subtle pooping expression (slight reddening of the face and look of concentration). I can whip that sucker off, wipe off microscopic residue, slap on Desitin in the most strategic spots, and get a new one on and fitted perfectly in record time. I can package up dirty diaper and wipes without contaminating anything, and dunk it into the trash can with a better free throw average than some professional NBA players. And I can do it all while singing a very loud, artificially cheerful song to distract a wriggling toddler.
What God cares about is not what we do for our work, but who we are doing it unto: "you are serving the Lord Christ" it says in Colossians 3. And earlier, "whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men." That means changing diapers can be something done whole-heartedly, as absurd as that sounds. That means there is something of worship in the repetitive, everyday things of motherhood, in the most stinky, unwanted tasks. I am saying, here, God, is this diaper I am changing. Here is this being you have given me that I am keeping alive; here I am being present, in this way I may very much not want to be present. Here I am believing that this child understands it as my love to him and to you. And here I am hoping in ten years, I'll never have to look at another dirty bum again.
No comments:
Post a Comment