Living in a building that was built in 1890, before indoor plumbing was mainstream in every apartment (ours had bathhouses in the basement rather than private tubs), means that water is not always a given, or, consistent. Just this week, a bathroom remodel in the restaurant on the first floor of our building meant that the water was largely turned off for the 35 apartments alongside and above it—between the convenient hours of 6-10 p.m, during which cooking, cleaning, and bathing occur. If you got lucky, you could turn on the water and maybe get a minute’s worth before it ceased again. Our cold returned before our hot did, so dishes were rinsed and put aside, and a shower postponed.
While this was one of the more remarkable times of water being off, it certainly isn’t the only. Many times, I will arrive at home and set out to wash my hands, first turning on the faucet with a second of nothing happening followed by an immediate retreat from the sink—an immense shot of air pressure explodes through the pipes, leading to giant pulses of water crashing into the sink and bespattering my clothes and everything nearby. First for the hot, then for the cold. It’s a calibration process that must occur every time the water is turned off, and there is nothing I can do to control it except to turn it on, step back, and allow it to proceed back to normal before resuming what I set out to do.
Then, there’s our shower, where you have to decide what you want more—water pressure, or hot water. You can’t have both at the same time. That’s followed by our toilet, which is temperamental to say the least. You need to hold the handle down just long enough for the flapper to lift and enough water to fill the bowl—and make sure the handle returns to its normal position lest it lock itself in a constant refilling position where water is in abundance.
The whole thing is sometimes annoying, sometimes comical, usually ordinary (you get used to it), and lately, teachable. I expect the constant presence and persistence of water—when I turn it on, it should be there, and it should perform its function as if it were an element as unchangeable as concrete. I expect of a fluid to possess innate qualities of solidarity of dependency in normal circumstances, and in that, forget its very nature—fluidity.
…
In the two-mile radius surrounding our 125-year-old apartment, there are numerous skyscrapers going up. The amount of concrete and steel needed is insane. On pump days, the concrete trucks line up single file for blocks on end—their revolving drums never ceasing their rotation—waiting for the line to move and their number to be up. When it comes, the concrete is pumped in furiously into pre-determined forms for the building, its workers guiding and shaping and smoothing—frantically yet skillfully—to get it in position to cure for what it is intended to be. Concrete is poured into foundations, columns, skeletons, walls, all of which are needed for the building to take shape. Water, a fluid, mixes with the cementitious material to make concrete, and after it is poured and cast, a curing process occurs. The first few days are critical, and then the concrete gets stronger over time. What began as many elements combines into a new substance to perform a new function, becoming one of consistency—solidarity.
In a place where progress not only marches on but races higher—seen by multiple floors added a week to the frameworks of these massive buildings—I realize the expectations hidden within my heart and mind.
I expect that if I mix fluid entities (people, circumstances, money, relationships) with controllable elements (pursuit, discipline, intention, time), that it will combine together to become something long-lasting and of solidarity. And while that can be—and is—true in some instances, it is not going to be true for everything and everyone.
Water can just be water by itself—it doesn’t have to be mixed with something else to become something else. We know this to be true with our reliance upon it. It can even be inconsistent. It can be surprising by its ability to change, yield to pressure, be consumed, or displaced entirely. In its coldest states, it will not move, and in its hottest, it will boil and fill the air with steam.
This life is full of fluidity. Lately, I’m surprised by this fact as if solidarity is the norm and fluidity did not come first. Concrete is not made without water. Yet, water is not just for concrete. I should expect my friendships to be fluid, circumstances to change, money to flow in and out, and relationships to evolve in different stages. In it still, I should wisely seek the leading of when to pursue, of where to be disciplined, in which to be intentional, and of what time to give.
These are the things of which I can give and what God enables me to do. Then, along the way of life, when these things do mix together to become something of solidarity, I can respond out of gratitude rather than of expectation—knowing that in this instance, God chose to keep the drum turning, the elements churning, His form design filling, and ultimately, the rising of His building.
It is no small feat.
And for that which remains fluid—may it remind me that when it flows, He is a gracious giver; when it freezes, He will warm it again in time; when it boils, He channels it to release what is needed; and when it runs dry, He will still provide.
May what is intended to become solid remind me of His testimonies. And for everything else, may its fluidity remind me of my dependency.