I ran my hand through the water on the banks of the pond that day. As I sat under the golden crisp light beaming down on me, I knew the time was not for decision making but rather reaction. Just as my hand ran through the water and out my fingers as it pulled from the wake, so too are you my Love. No matter how many hours I sit on the banks of the soggy pond, the water will forever slip. I find myself wondering if there is any hope for my fingers to hold on to what is so obviously wishing to flow away…will the water turn into the dirt I could once grip onto?
I am not sure at what point the consistency of this matter changed. I try my best on the edge of the water that afternoon to grasp onto the exact moment I lost the ability to pull the water up. I spent some of this day pushing my fingers together to form a cup, attempting my best to pull little bits up at a time. Noticing that this action only slightly succeeded, I knelt down with my knees dipped into the water and cupped both my hands together. I scooped all the water my 2 hands could hold and brought it to my dry lips.
The water was bitter in taste but I was thirsting for it. In rapid succession I brought more and more water to my arid tongue and drank. I drank as a man lost in the desert coming to the well would. Unlike the drifting soul across the sands of time, my thirst would not be quenched. Although I thought the water was mine to have I realized that no matter the attempts, my thirst prevailed. What I realized was that it wasn’t my lacking ability to grab onto the water, but rather the waters inability to quench my thirst. What has changed?
Just weeks ago this water was my Eucharist, my sacrament of life. I was the groom of Cana drenched in the delight of my fine wine being served as guests readied to leave. What has made this water into the filthy substance it is? Where is my mother to beg of its conversion? Where is my salvation to bring me the true blood my soul requires? Come to me….
The day at the pond proved to be a feeble attempt for my rescue of you. It was my last good attempt to take my own little bit of water back to the house. What I found out that day was that the pond would forever hold the liquid of life, I would never again have the chance to drink of it. You will forever be the gleam of that brisk orange light out the back window of my house. There in memory but never in taste.