I believe in the God of the bathroom floor. A series of cathedrals built of firmly locked doors. A heart is broken on the bathroom floor. A child is born on the bathroom floor. You’ve got the impulse to leave the cold tiles and you’re roiling, upturned stomach there as the pills come up and the tears go down.
I am asking to believe in the God of the bathroom floor. The pews got more germs than hymns on the altar of a self you’d rather leave behind. And maybe you want to believe in angel wings or an averted gaze. No one is looking, and the bathroom floor might be better that way.
But I think maybe we’re looking for God on the bathroom floor. When do you need salvation? Anywhere that got air. But when do you need belief? Not the kind that straightens your spine and closes your eyes. When do you need to believe that maybe mercy isn’t something you earn, but something given freely?
I believe in the God of the bathroom floor. Coming to you when the walls are closing in and saying the words you don’t want to hear, but given freely: I’m not leaving you here. You don’t have to get up from the bathroom floor, I’m coming, I’m coming to you this time. And staying when all other things have left.
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