Service Is a Privilege, or, A Lesson from the Restroom

I walked into the library with my four kids. Before we even stepped off the entrance mat, my little cuties informed me simultaneously of their need to use the bathroom. I don’t know why I’m inconvenienced by this request. Everyone is entitled to go potty. I just don’t delight in the adventure that is the public restroom. My kids ask embarrassing questions about body parts, make inappropriate comments about other patrons, or simply massage every surface to the beat of me repeating, “Please don’t touch that.”

There’s just no avoiding these things, though, so we entered the funhouse. Two kids crossed their legs and hopped around in a sudden state of panic and two more argued about their birth order-designated right to use the toilet first. There were three stalls. One was out of order. The next went to my son, whose facial expression warned of an imminent pant wetting.

The third stall looked promising, until I walked in to find a large mound of toilet paper in the corner. When I say a large, I mean this thing was a small hill. It was about two feet high by three feet wide and wet in some places. Within the toilet was further evidence someone had an all-out party with Scott’s single ply. I flushed a couple times then cycled my children through the stalls. Everything was good aside from the toilet paper mound still glaring at me.

Something inside me suggested I pick up the mess so someone else wouldn’t have to. I entertained this noble idea. I re-evaluated the toilet paper mound and thought, I don’t have any rubber gloves; I could get sick. Then I thought, The library has someone who is paid to do this.

 The kids were half playing in the foamy soap and half washing their hands. Since the library front desk was close to the restroom, I told the kids I’d be right back. I jogged to the kiosk.

A sweet-looking older woman greeted me.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

“This isn’t urgent at all, but I just wanted to inform you of a toilet paper mess in the handicapped stall of the women’s restroom.”

Her expression went from cheery to unimpressed. I felt a twang of regret, but figured I was doing my civil duty by saving the next mom from experiencing a messy restroom.

I jogged back to the bathroom to find one kid blow-drying her hair with the hand dryer and the other three competing to catch the most air inside their mouths while their cheeks blew up and flapped in the wind.

 

I gathered our belongings to exit, but then Sweet Library Lady entered. We paused as she approached the handicapped stall. She said something quietly as she surveyed the mess. Then she utilized the paper towel dispenser. I don’t know why I didn’t leave. It would’ve made sense to flee the uncomfortable atmosphere, but I stayed. The kids stared at her. I stared at her.

Sweet Library Lady grabbed a generous amount of paper towel, sufficient to protect her hands, headed into the stall, and picked up the toilet paper. She did this several times until everything was clean. She washed her hands and silently left.

My kids looked at me. They must’ve sensed something was amiss. I realized I’d lost an opportunity to exemplify hidden service to my kids. I missed showing them how to pick up a mess and be the kind of person who leaves a room better than how they found it. It doesn’t matter whether or not it’s my job. As a Christian, my privilege is to serve others. I truly believe Jesus wants me to serve others in these everyday kind of ways. You wouldn’t have known it by my actions that day.

I took a deep breath, attempting to suppress my feelings of complete embarrassment as we walked out of the bathroom, found ourselves some good books, and resumed our day. Soon we left and drove to the gym to drop off my daughter at gymnastics. My daughter’s coach, Sarah, was a friend. We usually chatted before practice. She could tell something was bothering me.

“What happened?”

I told Sarah about Sweet Library Lady and the toilet paper mess.

“Was she a shorter lady with brown, curly hair and glasses?” she asked.

“Yes. Why, do you know her?”

“She’s my mom.”

There was silence.

I struggled to formulate any intelligible words. I wanted to express my deepest apologies, but before I could speak, the Holy Spirit whispered in my heart, What difference does it make?

Indeed. If we only serve those we know, or those with whom we are connected, how valid, how reflective of Christ, is our service? I learned a difficult lesson that day, one I hope I won’t repeat. I’ll say it again: as a Christian, it is my privilege to serve others, whether I know them or not.

 

Lindsey Feldpausch is a creative writer, graphic design enthusiast, social media coordinator, and sinner saved by grace who lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Her worship leader/youth pastor husband and four delightful kiddos fill life with unbelievably amusing quotes and sweet snuggles. She thinks God is awesome and that the best adventure starts with saying yes to that still, small voice.

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