I went to the car wash today.
An ordinary thing, mechanical. Just another check on the “this is how it’s done” list.
But as I sat there in the driver’s seat, engine off and heart on, I watched the powerful jets slam against the windows, the brushes spinning like giant sponge palms, scrubbing away the dust, the grime, all the traces of the road.
And I thought:
God, why isn’t there a car wash like this for the soul?
A place where you enter, muddy with worry, soaked in shame, tired from everything you’ve been carrying, and come out clean, bright, like in the beginning.
While the car trembled gently under the force of the water, something inside me shook too.
As if all the questions, the guilt, the frustrations:
“why am I not doing enough?”
“why am I not enough?”
“why does it hurt so much to stay true to myself?”
all rose to the surface with the grime from the door seals.
I was still, handbrake pulled, but inside… I was racing.
Thoughts crashing like cars without brakes, questions howling louder than the plastic rollers.
Whooosh.
The first jet hit the side window.
Suddenly, something tugged at my sleeve.
And I looked.
Those huge brushes spun with a soft fury.
Brrr-sshh-brrr-sshh.
And I wondered:
What if someone could wash my soul like this. My mind, my heart?
Not with hate, not with judgment, but with the clear intent to clean?
Thick foam slid down the windshield.
White over dirty.
And I realized: I do the same.
I cover my wounds with foam labeled “I’m fine,”
wrap myself in smiles,
let people touch me only on the surface.
But underneath… there’s mud.
Dust from old roads,
scratches from careless words thrown on random Thursdays,
the mold of childhood silences.
Cli-clak.
The rollers stopped, then started again.
Water poured in waves — sss-sss-sss — like a blessing, like a psalm washed of its sins.
And I thought:
Why don’t we have buttons too?
A “start” for healing,
a “pause” when we feel like running,
a “reset” for the heart.
It was just me and the car.
Me and the mirrors I’ve stared into my whole life,
looking for approval,
for confirmation,
when all I really needed was a gentle hand to clean me.
I exited that wet tunnel with clean windows and misty eyes.
And I knew:
Sometimes, the most mundane stops are the deepest journeys.
Sometimes, you stay still… so you can move inside.
The car wash: a strange kind of church, no icons, but plenty of water.
A mechanical baptism for tired steel.
And for this woman,
who keeps forgetting she too needs cleansing.
Frequently,
not just when nothing is visible anymore through the windshield of her heart.