Full Flush: a story of faith
I imagine that at some point in the life of every devout
person, they confront a crises of faith. In Islamic tradition, Moses dealt with
his by asking God to show Himself to him – a foolish request for sure, but his
insistence and reasoning (to strengthen his heart/faith) underscore how deep
this conflict ran for him. Muhammad had a similar crisis when there was a pause
in revelation that caused him intense self-doubt and made him fear that God was
disappointed in him for some reason unbeknownst to him.
Personally, I’d like to think of myself as adamant in my
belief that God exists and that my life should reflect this belief – in this I
think I am stayed pretty clear and consistent – BUT, there have been many
moments that this certainty has been tested and met with despair and
desperation. Exhibit A would be my most recent 90 day stint in the joint. To be
brief, I had returned this past October thru January for a “turnaround” for a
technical violation of parole after a hearing process that proceeded much in
the same way President Trump proffers the idea that Obama wire-tapped him.
To my dismay and to the disbelief of many (including my own
parole officer) I was soon in the limbo of
DOC’s diagnostic and intake facility in Denver, where I would spend several
days in solitary confinement in a cell – out only for a couple hours daily. The
isolation gave me ample opportunity to sink into depression and doubt, and question
God especially as to why I was going through what I knew was a clear
miscarriage of justice. As it was, I soon
tempered my anger and despair by slipping into a habitual stoicism – my defense
mechanism for dealing with hardship and struggle.
My cell was a box of misery – with various pieces of metal
that jutted from concrete walls to serve for a bed, shelf, clothing hangers, and
a desk. Most imposing was the polished, stainless steel
All of the cynicism, disregard, and inefficiency that
characterize prison life and how prisons are run came together when one day my
toilet malfunctioned and would not flush. At best, I would have to spend a day
or two (or three, four) peeing in a stagnant pool. I’d have to find a way to
pilfer an extra towel or something to cover the toilet to mitigate the smell,
while waiting for staff to arrange either for someone to come repair my cell’s
plumbing or to move me to another cell.
One would imagine that either option
could be implemented easily and expeditiously – but that is only imagination. I
was in prison – my comfort took back seat to the process of intake and housing
of hundreds of inmates weekly. Repairs and housing rearrangement meant a
disruption in this process, and disruptions were not welcome nor attended to
with any haste.,
I pressed the button of my toilet several time trying over
and over again in vain to make it flush, hearing only a faint trickle of water –
enough to give me hope that if I push long and hard enough, I could muster a
full flush. Even as I braced my feet against the opposite wall to push against as
my fingers ached and threatened to bend backwards from my stubborn insistence,
my efforts were to no avail.
I sat on my bunk, dejected, head in hands, staring at this
cold, silvery symbol of oppression and punishment as it stared back, mocking
me. All of my hopelessness and exasperation welled up in me – I demanded of
Allah as to why He was punishing me. Why
was I stuck in this g-damn cell? Why was I being held in violation of parole
when I had done nothing wrong? Why was this even happening to me? Is my faith
real? My religion real? Is God, who punishes with no rhyme or reason, real?
Before I went too far – from questioning to outright rejecting
– my other inner voice began chiming in. The voice of that part of me that just
wants to know God is there – that needs to see signs to be strengthened and
reassured. The part of me that admits a weakness and begs for fortification
from outside of my own self. That part of me too is scared and prone to
desperation, but finds its solace not in anger and insolence – but seeks after
God despite ego. It was that voice that made me stand up, point my finger at
the toilet and declare out loud to it, “In
the name of Allah, I command you to flush!”
Sounds totally cheesy, trite, and inane, doesn’t it? I mean,
invoking the name of God to get a toilet to flush – and not just to flush, but
to prove He exists to boot?
Yeah, right.
And – you guessed it - I pushed the button, and I’ll be
damned it that damn toilet didn’t flush, as if nothing was ever wrong with it. No
rattling, no grumbling – it just flushed.
I pushed again – just to make sure. And it flushed again.
I stepped back, sank to my knees, put my forehead on the
ground and laughed.
THIS
is your sign, God?
You are reassuring me,
proving to me you are there – that this is just a test I must and can go
through and overcome – via a metal flush-monster?
THIS is my pillar of
fire, my parting of the Sea: a toilet flush wrought by your name??
BUT OF COURSE IT WAS...
As far as I knew that toilet was broken and I was up shit’s
creek in a most literal sense but for the fact I literally called on God. Yeah,
it was toilet, but it might has well have been the descent of a host of angels. I finished my 90 days giving less thought to
my hardship and more to patience and “looking for the lesson”. I got a few more
signs from Him along the way – definitely less farcical-seeming than relating to
toilets, but meaningful and fortifying nonetheless.
Today, as of this writing, with current challenges aside
(and there are plenty of them), my faith is on good terms with The Guy
Upstairs. A recent event has me leaning into gratitude more so than I ever have
since the day I embraced Islam 24 years ago, since the day I witnessed my
daughter being born.
I find myself nowadays giving more thought to the spiritual
side of things, where I have crossed paths with the Divine, and I keep coming
back to that day in that cell. Where – of all things – it was a the flush of a
toilet that reminded me that my faith – and my god – is very, very real.
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