Forget Our Lady of Lourdes. Forget the Wailing Wall. It’s time we canonize the shower.
No, really. Light a candle. Sling a rosary over the curtain rod. This thing has been weeping its own kind of holy water for over a year now. A true miracle of modern plumbing. If she were to appear to us, we’d call her Our Lady of Perpetual Leaks. She doesn’t ask for prayers—just caulk. And maybe a towel.
We’ve had more plumbers pass through this house than apostles at the Last Supper. Each one showing up with some shiny tool and holy intention, and leaving slack-jawed and spiritually defeated. Even Baltimore’s own “Best Plumber”—according to the City Paper—walked out with nothing but a shrug and a hurried sign of the cross before hopping into his truck like it was a getaway car.
Of all the men who have come and failed, only Mike’s Plumbing has dared return.
Diagnosis? Same as always.
“More caulk,” he says, like a doctor prescribing water to a drowning man.
And caulk I have.
“I’ve caulked the hell out of it,” I tell him. Which, frankly, might be the most Catholic sentence I’ve said in years.
Mike nods like a man who’s seen some things.
“I’m on the case,” he says, like Batman, if Batman had a toolbelt full of sealant and water bills.
But this time, no apprentices. No new guy with a clipboard. No nervous college kid in steel-toed boots. This time, Mike himself is stepping into the ring.
And honestly? I hope he brings a priest.
Because if this doesn’t work, I’m not calling another plumber. I’m calling the Vatican.