Slish Slosh

nag1

verb
  1. annoy or irritate (a person) with persistent fault-finding or continuous urging.

The dictionary says this is the definition of nag,  I’d say it’s the definition of my most recent disposition.

These past two weeks, I nagged a lot.

I also pointed my finger a lot, at myself and at God.

“God why are you making me suffer through these thoughts and those desires again? Why are you making me feel like I’m back in chains, trudging through the troughs of life?

Do I not pray enough or something?

“No, like really God, do you want me to pray again because I will.”

And I did…”God, please lift me out of this.”

(This is where I shamefully admit the obvious: God didn’t put shackles back on me and He didn’t throw me down into this trough. It was all the one pointing her finger.)

A select few can tell you something has been off about me the past fourteen days.

And, like the wonderful individuals they are, they made sure to let me know it.

I don’t know how, but I guess they heard it inside of me– the reverberating, slish slosh, slish slosh.

The sloshy saga lasted 14 days… just me and my giant pool of nags.

Unfortunately, there was no camouflage booby trap covering up the concrete hole in the ground. It was no accident, me falling face first to the bottom of my waterless nag pool.

I drilled the hole. I poured the cement. I sat back and watched it harden in the sun. I molded mosaic pieces along the edges to add some class.

Then, after a few days, I decided something was missing:

“Oh yeah, more cement!” (not my brightest moment)

As I poured the bucket of slimy, gray permanency, a realization flooded me: I haven’t swam in a while. I haven’t taken that exhilarating leap into the refreshingly brisk water lately. I haven’t floated on my glorious inner tube yet.  

Slish. Slosh.

An empty concrete hole in the ground will eventually, provided it rains, become home to some form of algae.

The Disney Land of all slip and slosh attractions.

That’s where I was.

Sloshing around in a ground hole full of slimy, smelly algae.

Cue the anguish and frustration.

I knew I was in a pool and I knew it was missing its most distinguishing feature, the one thing that makes it so pleasurable, the water.

“Why are you sitting at the bottom of this pool, Alexis?

I set that hose there a long time ago. You’ve used it before. I turned it on for you and I will never turn it off. All the water from it has been running off into the street for days. Climb up the ladder and go get it.”

So, I did.

I climbed each bar, gaining more resolve the higher I climbed.

As I peered over the surface, my perception changed. The figures on the grass that towered over me, shouting condemnation at my small, sloshy soul couldn’t anymore.

As I stepped off the ladder, suddenly I was too tall to be towered.

With swift strides I walked over to the spout, grabbed the hose and marched back to the empty concrete hole in the ground.

When the water first hit the pool’s bottom, the algae whipped back and forth, adjusting to the new elements.

But, after a few minutes it stopped. It just kind of gently floated there, as the mud and impurities loosened from the green slime.

The pool is deep, and the hose still has more to pour, but my inner tube is inflated and my soul once again has a place to rest.

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