In a time where there is too much water and not enough water.
Tears sting our eyes and our cheeks flare hot with grief
when we witness how greed sets the ocean aflame.
Billows of smoke are our anger.
Crops toasting dry, our heartbreak.
Rush of rising water wiping away homes, our weeping.
In our grief, here we are:
Blood in our veins, riverbeds of our bodies.
Air in our lungs, trees inhaling.
We tip cups of tea to our lips.
We hear the sound of rain and can finally fall asleep.
Some lucky days we might float in water with our faces to the sky,
or take a hot shower smelling of soap.
Can you see our sibling, the Earth-being, Jesus,
waist-deep in the river saying, yes John, yes. This is why I came:
to be immersed in what I am already made of —
grief, anger, heartbreakingly beautiful joy.
The gift is being blessed by another with what’s on hand.
The gift is the sheer ability to receive the blessing in the first place.
So today, at the water’s edge,
today with cupped hands,
today with a light touch to your forehead,
dipping your fingers into a bowl,
watching the ripples spread out: remember.
Remember that the water brimming your cells to life
is the same water that has been on this planet since conception.
Cycling into ancient newness: tomato on a vine,
body of a beetle, lapping of a lake, life pulsing in our hearts.
Beloved Interdependence.
Remember your baptism.
You are being made new over and over again.
Remember, even in your grief, you are held
in the Still Living Waters of Creation,
determined, with hearts on fire, to bless Them back.
– Rev. Molly Bolton, enfleshed