When it comes to joy, I'm all wet

Joyfully squinting into the sun. June 2025.

The scene: Puerto Rico, June 2025. My spouse and I are halfway through a child-free tropical getaway together. I am sitting beach-side in a new, white, two-piece bathing suit.

"Come swim!" my husband calls from the ocean where he floats. "The water's fine!"

I demur. I swam in this bathing suit the day we arrived and discovered it is the exact opposite of quick-drying. Four days later, it's still damp, and I'm reluctant to soak it all over again. So I smile, shake my head "no," and return to my book.

An hour passes. Undisturbed by children, I am absorbed in my reading. Then, out of nowhere, the skies open and dump a torrent of water on my idyllic beach scene. My husband and I dash back to our guesthouse for cover. We only partially succeed. Most of our things—chairs, towels, snacks, electronics—are now wet.

Once the short storm passes, we repack our small items in more waterproof bags and head back to the beach. We reapply sunscreen. I resume reading my book. I am still not interested in getting my suit all-the-way wet.

Mother Nature has a different idea. A mere 30 minutes later, another tropical rain shower blows through. Knowing we have protected everything but ourselves, we decide to stick it out on the beach. And even though raindrops are pelting me, even though I can't do any other activity, and even though my damp suit is now definitively wet, I am still reluctant to get in the water.

My common sense pipes up: "Yo. You realize this is stupid, right?" I have to admit my rationale is shaky. It's not just that I don't feel like having to manage a sopping suit in a scrunched hotel room, which in and of itself is a minor, surmountable inconvenience. And it's not only a matter of wanting to say I'm the kind of wild woman who hurls herself at every hedonistic opportunity yet not be that person in reality.

No, something deeper is keeping my feet on the shore: overwhelm. I am overwhelmed by the freedom of being an adult on her own. By my ability to direct my own movements and follow my own whims. By the breath-catching acknowledgement that I am alive in this body, in this place, at this already-gone moment in time, as present as I can ever be.

What a privilege to have the time, space, and ease to contemplate this small choice. I say "small" because in the context of our wild and worrying world, my decision to swim is insignificant. But in terms of my life right now, in terms of how I choose to move through it—with fear and anxiety, or with curiosity and excitement—the decision feels quite significant.

I watch my husband bobbing on the waves. My saturated halter ties pour rivulets down my back. The wind picks up and the rain increases.

Fuck it.

I run into the water and splash toward my husband. The raindrops ricochet off the ocean's surface and and hit my face from below. My hands become windshield wipers. I laugh, deep from my belly, so hard my diaphragm contracts, because there is nothing else I can do. It's not that the situation is absurd; I am absurd. Absurd in thinking I could stay dry. Absurd for delaying the inevitable. Absurd for resisting the gift of flagrant, lavish, embodied joy.

The suit, by the way, took another four days to dry. It was worth it. 

Prayer #411: Drying Rack

Draped on the drying rack, my soul drip-drips to the dampening floor.

The question:

    Is this thin rod sturdy enough?

    Is it sufficient for my weight?

The answer:

    The rod has held much heavier things.

    Let worry evaporate.

    Joy will not dry up. 

Amen.

--

Looking to revel in your own holy joy? Check out the chapter titled ""Joy: God, Do You Laugh?" in my book, Amen? Questions for a God I Hope Exists, for prayerful and poetic inspiration.