Member-only story
When God Followed Me Into the Restroom
An ode to praying like no one’s watching
[Warning: This post contains imagery that you may not want in your head while you’re eating.]
On Sunday, we went to brunch after church at one of my favorite breakfast establishments in the city (I say ‘one of’ because it’s impossible to pick ‘a’ favorite here in Chicago).
It’s called Tre Kronor. They make the best Swedish pancakes, serve the finest locally sourced sausage, and have the Scandanavian vibe dialed in. Being of Danish descent, sitting in that space not only tantalizes my tastebuds, it also ties me into my long, lost heritage for a short while (even though it’s technically a Swedish restaurant, I say it’s close enough).
So we’re sitting there and we order and I realize I have to use the restroom really fast. I get up, walk over, and as I reach for the door, the person who’s seated next to us walks out, hands me the door, and I enter.
That’s when it happens. I look at the toilet and it’s caked with… Shit.
These aren’t faint water-washed skidmarks. These are fresh tracks. Well above the waterline.
I’m immediately nauseous. The sensation shoots from my stomach to my mouth that sends air into my cheeks as I gag.
