It began with routine,
the normal cleaning of his tank. And all miracles and tragedies begin this
way—in the ordinary grime and rhythm of pedantic life.
But today, the status quo shifted. The smallest nudge rivets
vase and sends it shattered across counter and floor. His little world crashes, but he is safe,
roaming the neighbourhood of a kitchen bowl. Does he know that all has fallen to pieces, that shards of his small realm slit
Owner’s hand and draw liquid pain—a clean laceration leaking life? Does he care that his realm cannot be restored,
that a new world must be purchased for him to keep living? No, he floats oblivious
to the reality outside his three-cups-of-water existence.
And don’t we insulate
ourselves, so we are not touched by the crashes, the cuttings, the cataclysmic
upsets of our world? Don’t we cushion and distance and Styrofoam-peanut
ourselves into a protected living coffin . . . . safe from the dangers of life?
All the while, we ignore the pathetic un-life of our existence.
Sometimes, whether on
purpose or “accident”, our perfectly sufficient, boringly normal lives require deep
shaking, so we realize that it is not circumstances
that define our reality, but Redemption.
And so it happens,
that in the transfer to the newly purchased world, he falls. Falls utterly. Out of water and hand
and bowl and all that’s remotely familiar. Falls through suffocating air into a
mausoleum—sink drain encloses him on every side, Owner unable to grasp his wriggling
mass, he flails onto sieve, suspended, trapped, sentenced to die in the void.
Owner scrambles for
tools, to wrest free the drain nuts. He runs water, washing the victim with
life. Finally loosened, the opened drain reveals a terrible problem: two sieves
separated by an impenetrable distance, and the dying pet stranded on the
further rack.
And what else can be
done for the helpless one? Water now spills into bucket under the sink,
defacing the immaculate scene. The carnage waits hopeless and still. He will
die. He will rot. His corpse eased through the sieve holes by eventual decomposition.
And all seems lost. Owner says goodbye and walks away.
But in the minutes where
life ebbs out, LIFE reawakens. And he stirs,
perhaps shuddering at inevitable fate looming. But it is enough. Owner sees the
struggle, and ignites into furious rescue. Running upstairs to find different tools, rushing back, heedless
of the mess and danger; bending low to bring
freedom.
And he is found! Owner
reaches him, grabs him, and it hurts utterly, but brush with LIFE can hurt more than brush with DEATH.
And he is SAFE . . . though he cannot know it
yet. Owner places him in new tank, and he lays dazed and weak in the sweet embrace
of water. Paralyzed by terror, ache, and hope realized, he remains immobile.
But his gills begin fluttering, and vitality courses miniature in his frame.
Owner puts the world
back together, and waits. And Owner sleeps sound, and rescued one rests to life again. And in the
morning, he devours offered food, and flourishes his plume in this new world.
And all returns to
normal . . . but all has completely changed. And life cannot look the same, because
the vase is different, because blood was lost, because tragedy struck and redemption rescued, and life was meant to be lived in this wonder.
Thomas is a Beta fish,
but his life teaches. And him simply living and eating and swimming happy shows
off his owner’s goodness. The difference between us and him isn’t so much
circumstance or genus . . . it’s choice.
We have CHOICE to sing for our Maker. And
Redemption ignites our forever song.
Photos courtesy of Owner
