We left the sand, Sharon and I. Through the rippling greys and out to stand waist-deep where the water glowed with pink and coral on the tips of its wrinkles to fall lavender in its folds. Silent in awe, just breathing, suspended between sky and reflected sky. Enveloped in brilliance. Small and securely lost in immensity.
The beauty built until I had to open my mouth to ease the aching and we began to sing. Cupping handfuls of water, we threw them in exultation to the sky. Each droplet hung in the air for long seconds, each reflecting so it seemed full itself of sky... diamonds and stars falling back to their whole.
Weight that had accumulated from two years of daily trying to ease suffering and fill holes of neglect flew from my hands with the droplets. And nothing feels sacred now that these griefs have ripped into the inner circle of my world. The actuality that my love cannot protect my dad from heartbreak, my sisters from trauma, my friends from date rape and death has repeatedly glared closer than my reflection this past year. Realizing that loving and picking up the pieces is no prevention or magic wand has worn thin places of guilt. All that rose from murky depths to the surface. And I flung it into the air to watch it sparkle and fall.
Worship is a celebration of God's vastness. A letting in of His intimacy. An emptying and a filling.
I can't be enough, and I despise that fact. But I am eventually crushed if I walk under a load that isn't mine to bear. I wasn't meant to be enough, only a drop in the sea of God's presence with us.
He has been and is constantly enough for me. So I threw to Him the responsibility to be enough for them.
I stand in worship, and I keep filling and emptying my hands. Only a drop in the sea that washes jagged brokenness smooth into sea glass treasure.
I was meant for this.