Ebb and Flow

“Shower! Now! This is the fourth time I’m asking!” The word “shower” was shouted more in our family than any other word—more than “bedtime,” “dinner,” or “oh my heck.” My parents went through extreme measures of nagging, begging, and even wrestling with God in mighty prayer for me to shower. I despise showering. I dread the scent of nasty hairballs from unknown sources and sub-zero water stabbing my scalp like icicles after my younger brother uses the last of the hot water. The effort and time it requires to cleanse my body is, definitely, not worth it. As I write this, the last shower I immersed myself in was three days ago, and frankly, no one has noticed my stench yet. Showers are not as necessary as people make them seem. Those European kings and queens centuries ago, who abstained from bathing for years at a time, knew best.

* * *

For the past year, I have written my to-do list on my hand in pen. Usually, I will scribble down the name of a person I need to talk to, a room number I need to find, or a word I need to incorporate into my vocabulary that particular day. My left hand is often covered in the graffiti of my thoughts, and with each shower and hand washing after using the restroom, the words dim and slowly disappear. This can result in catastrophe, as I surely will forget what needs to be performed. To prevent this misfortune, I created and lived by my personal motto: “Washing hands is overrated.” I feel as if a piece of me has been ripped off my hand when I glance down to see my left hand unmarked and washed clean. Once my hand is bare, my soul feels just as bare.

* * *

Nothing tragic has happened in my life—no deaths, no major family problems, and not too much hardship. But wait, I’m overlooking the most dreadful night of my life—senior year prom. Everyone has heard at least one embarrassing story of someone going to prom with her cousin, brother, or even mom. When my date ditched me, I didn’t want to be just another loser who went alone or with a family member—so I brought my beta fish. Sunshine was the perfect date; he was more than I could have ever asked for from a human boy. His favorite dance was the Macarena, but I think his real talent was getting low to Flo Rida. I particularly rejoiced in pretending to reel Sunshine in with a fishing rod; he loved that. But all the fun was short-lived; my date died by the end of the night, and I was the murderer. I poured him into water that was too cold for his little body, and I watched in despair as Sunshine died in seconds. As I watched the toilet water consume and flush Sunshine, I let the frigid water in his bowl spill over my hands—the hands of a murderer—and I wished the water could wash away my guilt.

* * *

Two monstrous moles plague the skin of my left arm. One of my best friends finds immense pleasure in drawing a single curve beneath my two moles to form a smiley face. During high school, I always enjoyed walking around school with my friend’s artwork on display, with my arm as his canvas. When it washed off in the shower, it was no big deal; he would simply draw a new smile the next day. On my last day home, before I left to Utah, he whipped out the Sharpie to draw on my arm—as usual. But when I looked down at the mole-Sharpie face, it had changed. I was startled by a crying frown staring back at me.

* * *

I took a seat on top of the back of my friend’s car, gripping the outside of the car with one hand and some food drive flyers with the other hand. It was only one block—so what’s the worst that could happen? Around a sharp turn, I flew off the car—my Peruvian hat flying with me—and plummeted to the cement, skidding across the gravel. My friends leaped out of the car and sprinted to my aid, with inquiries such as, “Jessie, oh my goodness! Are you alright? May I help nurse you back to health?” I have the best friends—at least, I would say that, if they had actually said that. Instead, the first exclamation I heard was, “Quick! Grab the flyers before they blow away!” There I was, sprawled across the ground and gasping for breath, whimpering like a baby, and my friends were more concerned with collecting the flyers and Peruvian hat. As soon as I arrived home, my mom and dad were at my side, holding me and washing the open wounds of their seventeen-year-old daughter out under the faucet.

* * *

I never knew sadness until I left all the people I love. I missed the tangy smell of Dole pineapples in the lunch my mommy packed for me in high school. I missed belting out Scripture Mastery songs, in deafening tones, with my younger brother in the car ride to seminary. I missed the bullets of sweat on my forehead from late night hot wings with my older brother. My showers were minimal the days after I left home for college; I did not want to erase that crying face on my arm. I did not want to undress to get in the shower, because I deliberately wore clothes that reminded me of home—including the shirt with a picture of Jesus and me as BFFs that my friend made. One day after showering, I was checking myself out in the mirror, as customary for every shower exit, and I realized the face on my arm had washed away. I had no way to remember home anymore.

* * *

Imagine a family who has an annual weeklong summer camping trip together to sit around the campfire, hold each other close, roast marsh mellows and Starbursts, and sing Kumbaya. That’s definitely my cousin’s perfect family—not mine. My family is not one for traditions or any sort of planned activity, but that is not to say that we don’t spend time together. The best memories aren’t always the best planned ones. But in the summers before my brothers and I hit our teen years, we jumped on the trampoline with the water sprinkler underneath—almost religiously. It was our own daily ritually. Sadly, later in life, years went by without the three of us continuing this tradition. My brothers were more into the devil’s game of World of Warcraft—as my parents like to call it. Similarly, I was more interested in being with my friends; brothers weren’t “cool” in junior high. It took a while for my brothers and me to get our priorities straight, but this past summer, screams of wild trampoline-jumping ecstasy were heard throughout the neighborhood once again. And no, these were not the screams of my Kumbaya-singing cousins. The painful sting of my brothers’ belly flops were felt by every last neighbor. As my brothers forced me into the frigid sprinkler water, the sweet lullaby of my yelp even got the birds singing.

* * *

I am from Washington State; yes, I have made the Great Mecca to Forks, Washington—hometown of Twilight. It was less than a week before I left Washington for college, and yes, Forks was everything I dreamed it to be. Of course, my friend and I made a point to check out First Beach at La Push, where Jacob Black had first walked along the shore with Bella Swan, telling her the legend of the vampires or “cold ones.” As I gazed out at the wondrous and vast ocean, it reminded me of one of the last vacations my whole family took together. Our family of five traveled to Laie, Hawaii to visit my grandparents and to bask in the sun on the beach. My brothers and I played soccer along the sandy shore, with my parents sitting happily on a blanket watching us and taking ridiculous amounts of pictures. Looking back, this is one of the most joyful times of life, not just because I was in Hawaii, but because my family was together and happy to be together. It was before my dad had a stroke, before my older brother dropped out of college, and before I had to be miles away from my family. But I wouldn’t change my family and our situation now for the world. I wouldn’t go back to that moment in Hawaii. Whether I like it or not, all these experiences are a part of my soul’s fabric; they define me as the woman I am today. Life comes in waves of opposition, bringing things both to me and away from me. Water can wash things off my skin, but I’m at peace knowing that in the ebb and flow of life, those people and memories will come back to me again.