mercy (is flowing)

While busy working on the computer this morning, I glance toward the street to see a man unzipping his pants. He then begins urinating on our doorstep.

"Someone's pissing on our door!" I yell to the guys, and begin walking over for a confrontation.

By this time, the man's waving his junk around and is well on his way to watering our doorstep. I push my face up to the window to give him the evil eye, yet he continues, though now somewhat shocked, turning, subsequently spraying urine on our window.

The puddle starts rolling down the sidewalk toward the street.

"Call the cops," the guys say, and my brain freezes.

The guy looks helpless. He's drunk. He's old. He's weathered.

While I stand inside, I pull on the unlocked door toward me to make sure he doesn't open it. We make eye contact and our dance begins. He looks at me like as if he's a small child, yet is well over twice my elder.

He raises his hands in front of his face, folding them together like a child learning how to pray, as if I was preparing to jump through the glass and start rumbling.

It was his plea for mercy.

Public urination lands you a non-coveted spot on the sex offenders list, which can ban you from certain homeless shelters. (A man recently froze to death in Grand Rapids because he was denied a night in a shelter because it was too close to a public school).

"Sorry, I had to go," he says, among other mumblings.

In my anger and disgust, I want him to pay, but all I could muster was to open the door and say, "Don't do that here. Please find another bathroom." He continues his plea and eventually leaves.

Immediately, I fill up a Nalgene bottle from the sink and dump it outside, trying to wash away the pee. Then I head downstairs, fuming, scouring the basement for our red bucket. I find it and pour a cap of bleach in it, filling the rest with water, finally dumping it outside while Tingley holds the door.

With mumbles and disgruntled speech, I verbally vent to the guys and forget about it...until lunch.

"Uh oh, did you use bleach on the sidewalk?" Derek asks.

I look down. My favorite shirt. White spots. Destroyed.

Tonight there's an important party (hypocritically enough, I wore my best clothes), so I drive home to change, all the way, of course, blaming the walk-by pisser.

As I'm crossing the street on the way back, all I can think about is the look on this stranger's face, hands folded, begging for mercy.

And it reminds me of me.

I've done this before. (A story for another day).

There was a time I got drunk as a teenager. I came home, thinking my mother was going to be sleeping, peacefully unaware of her son's antics. After stumbling through the door, I stroll into the computer room, and there she is, watching TV on the couch. Playing it cool, I make small talk, then sign onto AOL and pretend like everything's normal.

She knew. (And FYI, this has since become a favorite story of mine to tell at family gatherings. I'm sure she's thrilled every time she has to relive it.)

So I go to bed, thinking I'm James Bond, reveling in the thought that I'd blown past mother's homeland security on Sunset Drive.

Then the room starts spinning. The puke alarm clock starts ringing.

Tip-toe running to the bathroom, I don't make it. A vomit tsunami rushes out of my inner-most being, tagging the carpet and splashing onto the bathroom floor.

Panicking, I close the door and begin "mopping" with a bath towel.

And then I hear a knock. The dreaded knock.

My drunk heart drops. Busted.

My mother opens the door, and I look up like a wet dog, seeped in my own puke pool.

She looks at me and simply says, "Go to bed."

When I wake up the next morning, I assemble fuzzy memories, hoping it was just a dream, but quickly realizing it was a real nightmare. Confronting me at the kitchen counter, she says, "Aaron, you were pretty drunk last night, weren't you?"

And I have the nerve to lie.

"No," I reply.

"Yes, you were. I could smell you when you walked in," she says.

Amazingly, I have the audacity to lie again, fabricating a story about friends of friends daring me to drink vodka or some booze that made me unknowingly drunk, when the truth is, I set out to bong beers. I was trying to throw randoms under the bus.

But still, my mother cleaned up my mess. She had mercy on me. Why?

Because of her immeasurable love for me. It broke her heart realizing her son drank, and shattered it while mopping up my boozey vomit in the middle of the night.

What my mother felt, and what I caught a taste of this morning, is a glimpse into the depth of God's mercy on us, despite our disobedience and poor choices.

This old street man, with his tattered hands elevated, looked me in the eyes to remind me of the mercy I've been shown: by God and others.

And I think of all the times we've collectively peed on God's doorstep, and the sheer volume of requests where we've stood before the Creator, our hands held out, asking for mercy, not wrath.

"Speak and act as those who are going to be judged by the law that gives freedom, because judgment without mercy will be shown to anyone who has not been merciful. Mercy triumphs over judgment!" (James 2:12-13)