outpouring
I have a million words most days. They eventually spill out of me like a gallon of milk that misses the glass. I attempt to sop them up before they cascade from the table to the floor. Recently I taught just a little bit on the Sermon on the Mount. “Blessed are the… For they shall be…” Upon some reflection, I do not know which words could describe who I am. But I know that I have been filled, comforted, shown mercy, and called a daughter of God. Today I read aloud of Jesus washing feet. The one who created the earth and breathed life into the dust, pouring water into a basin, stooping low, washing the dirt and the filth away, and drying toes with a towel. “What I’m doing you don’t realize now, but afterward you will understand.” A familiar theme in John's gospel. I play black and white keys, overwhelmed by what I do understand amidst the questions of a typical day. I sing someone else's words because I have run out of my own. The tears flow down like water out of a basin. Someone has stooped low to lift me up.
