I no longer bathe anyone but myself.

There were years though when it fell in my jurisdiction to keep four or five children clean. On the same day. Which they had opinions about. There were times when three were in the tub together, washing the head in front of them, popping bubbles with their pointers.  The girls loved it when the suds were thick enough to pull their mop upwards into a unicorn horn. Toys became a permanent feature in the bathroom, and more than once I stepped on a squeaky duck.

John taught me a trick which I hesitate to admit though it did work. You lean over the shower door, which makes the child curious enough to look up just long enough for you to squeeze shampoo like a trickling waterfall onto their wet hair. Then you hop off the stool and get them sudsy. Singing all the while, you can finish the scrub before they revolt. Then hop back on the stool with a milk jug of water, and when they can't resist looking up, you rinse. 

I was younger then.

John spent the better part of last weekend making soap to hand out at church. Not making it, really, though that was one of a string of crafts we dabbled in back in the eighties. Now I count on getting high end bars from my preschoolers at Christmas which, curiously their mothers keep giving. Perhaps I could read into that. 

He was preaching about the miracle of Naaman and Elisha, and how the soldier was cured of leprosy. It is a stretch for people in 2017 North America to feel the magnitude of that suffering, since most of us have never been inconvenienced by any skin condition worse than eczema. But this was a debilitating disease. One of the ramifications is that you can no longer feel. Even if you bang, or burn yourself, the nerves have lost the capacity to alert your brain.

When Naaman goes to Elisha for a cure, he expects a dramatic display of power. But all that happens is a simple directive. 

"Go wash in the river seven times."

Naaman is furious by the way. He stomps off in a rage. Washing, it seems, is beneath his rank. But the servant girl asks a question.

"If Elisha had asked you to do some hard thing, you would have done it. Why then will you not do this small thing?"

But back to the soap. John melted old candle stubs into my best soup pot, and printed quotes about being clean. He oh so carefully dipped the paper in the wax, and placed it on the soap, then dipped the surface of the bar to adhere it. Magic soap, he called it. One side washes your body, the other side washes your mind. 

It's a small thing, really. Washing your hands. Rinsing your thoughts. But in a regular routine it keeps things from spiraling out of control. 

Plus those of us who have numbed the ability to feel another person's pain, will regain it. As well as the capacity to feel their joy.