reflections on water

Since we're still early in the challenge, I can't say too much about my goals. I continue to meet my first, basic goal (to write every day). Still no progress on the novel. Not worried; I have time.

This evening my writing for the day was a simple, personal reflection on bathtime. After several minutes of deliberation, I've decided that I am going to share what I wrote. It will probably guarantee that any ROWers who stop by won't come again (and I will probably get a rep for being the crazy water/Africa/death girl), but hey, whatever. :o)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I took a bath with my baby daughter this evening, not because she was particularly dirty or because I needed one. She gets a bath every night – at least a little one – and sometimes on the weekend I want to have extra time to play and cuddle with her, so we end up lap-deep in bubbly water together.

As we were splashing about this evening I started thinking about the blessing of water, and how often I forget to be grateful for the oh-so-important “basics” in our blessed, spoiled lives.

Even in this very country, it was only a few generations ago when taking a soapy bath was a bit of a luxury. The weekly event took place on Saturday night so you could be clean and presentable at church the next day, and you’d pile your kid (or kids) into the tub because you couldn’t afford to draw a separate bath for everyone.

But this evening – as I could any other evening, if I want – I flipped a lever and called forth clean water. As much water as I wanted, as hot as I wanted. Glorious.

Maybe all this reflection and gratitude is the result of my recent book choices. During the last year, coincidentally, three of the books I read reflected on the history and current state of various African nations. I also read a long essay about the effects of the famine in the Horn of Africa. The essay included many – too many – personal accounts of starvation and loss. In particular, there was a father who lost six of his eight children while they trekked across their country to a refugee camp some 300 miles away. One by one the children grew weary and faint, so the father would hoist them up on his back. Sometime later he would realize the child had died, and everyone would stop to bury the child. The father repeated this pattern for six children. Just trying to picture it makes your heart ache; I don’t know how you could keep going after it happened even one time… except that you still have seven children who need you, who are depending on you, to deliver them to safety. I can only guess that it’s the sight of them, those who are still living, that enables you to square your shoulders and march on to the hope (not even the promise – just the hope) of deliverance. Even though these children are not mine, I would sacrifice every snuggly, soapy bath I will ever have for the rest of my life if I could just save one such life. It hardly seems fair that I am eating chocolate ice cream right now while children starve in Africa.

So next time I want to see a miracle, I am going to pour myself a glass of tap water. And next time I’m having a hard time counting my blessings, I’m going to start by saying thanks for the basics – air in my lungs, clean water to drink at any moment, food on the table, and so forth.

And if I’m having a hard time remembering why the basics are so important, I will picture that father walking across the desert; lifting a child onto his shoulders; lowering that child into a shallow grave… six times.

(African water aid groups include The Water Project and charity : water)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -