Once upon a time, my children, I rented a room in a house (that in itself is a story for another time).
In that time, great rains came. It rained every day and every night for 28 straight days.
Those of us who lived in the house knew the roof had some leaks, but we could not get the roof fixed because every roofer for 100 miles was busy patching leaks.
At this time of my life, I showered every night right before bed.
One night I lay on the couch thinking "I gotta go take a shower."
It got later and later, but I was struck by such a great fatigue that I felt like I couldn't get up.
It was very strange. I felt like a giant hand was pressing down on me, keeping me prone on the couch, unable to move.
I kept saying to myself "I HAVE to get up. I have to take a shower," but I could not move.
Suddenly there was a loud noise. Crashing. Breaking.
All four of us leapt up to see what had happened. The sound had come from the bathroom and we ran in there to look.
The floor was covered with a foot of sopping wet, heavy insulation and sheet rock. The bathtub was completely full of it. With the fallen, sodden material and the sheet rock, it weighed tons. Anyone who had been in the bathroom at the time it came crashing down would have been killed or, at very least, badly hurt.
When I look back I wonder what hand was pressing me down on the couch last night, and why.