pour me out, fill me up
There is a cabinet here, thin bowed glass, a metal push handle, claw feet. Each shelf trusts metal pegs, like the stick in the ground that holds a gentle elephant in place. My plates, I brought them all, the china, the platinum rim. I brought the stemware, the goblets for parties of 12. There are two cake stands, a tea pot, silver salt and pepper shakers, a few vases.
Not for the box, I had said. Ah, and now how boringly those things take up space, unlike all the books.
My body is not bored. My belly grows, and apartments don’t suffer decadence or parties of 12. So I plan to make room for a child, week 10 inside, shaped like Thumbelina, the size of a tart kumquat.
I gladly make room, remembering that process that should never be allowed to stop, the pouring out so more can pour in.
I went to a coffee shop on Saturday, and I poured the decaf and sat to make my deadlines, and then an old friend and a new friend walked in. We three talked for over two hours, and I left with that feeling of blessedness that comes from mountains, the undeserved beauty in shared story, good words.
Poured out expectations, then overrunning with the wine of life, I don’t want the story that I make up, the one I plan. I want the one drenched with surprise, where God’s spirit dips his fingers in wet and daily splashes my face awake; the one that reminds – You know God; the one that says – Follow fire, even if the fire is in seeing the smile of a friend peek from behind his wild beard.