Fill Me Up

Lose your breath; pant heavy, though you’re not sure why. Reach out into the air and touch something tangible. Listen to dissent and feel it tremble within you. Wrestle and tumble and stand up and be aflame.

You provide the fire–

Cling; cling tight, so tight that your knuckles are Dixie sugar-crystal white. Fear; fear  so hard and long that when you begin to let go, your hands will ache. Run; run not toward but away, away from the prospect of emptiness. And then let go.

I’ll provide the sacrifice.

Stand somewhere, in the middle of milling bodies and punctured conversations, and feel like you’re the only one. Feel what’s surrounding you; close your eyes, then, and let it take you over.

You provide the Spirit–

Receive. For the Love of God–receive.

And I will open up inside.


For some reason, while I know that 7:15 is the absolute latest time I can get out of bed and make it to work by 8 a.m., I get out of bed almost every morning at 7:20. It’s the five-minute rush, the I’m-almost-gonna-make-it skip in the step, the spilling-drops-of-coffee on my way down the stairs, a splash on my cream tights here, a dark drizzle running down my wrist there. It’s cold outside. I crank my car. I hear it. It calms my soul.

It’s not about spilled coffee, though that’s something I may or may not have been known to cry about. It’s not rushing, though I think my mornings could really improve if I was brushing my teeth by 7:20. It’s not about the fear that goes along with standing in the midst of a whirling wind, and being asked to make your own way. It’s not about grad school applications, or choices that weigh heavy on the heart, or tough conversations, or saying goodbye, or writing this, even though all of those things are some of the threads that have knit my last weeks.

It’s not even about the coffee that’s not spilled, the sunshine that wraps me right up, the look from my mother that says something that doesn’t have words. It’s not about a three-hour conversation with a friend, the kind that breaks you apart until she can see the very insides of you. It’s not about warm chocolate-chip filled brownies, though sometimes it tastes like it is. It’s not about all of these things that rise to the surface, shimmering.

Sometimes I see these things: coffee spilled, coffee in my cup. But I hear.

Love of God, overflow. Permeate all my soul.

Overflow, overflow, overflow. Onto Virginia Woolf novels and drop into cups of coffee and into conversations and throughout my words and on my face and in my hands and alongside my thoughts and overflow, overflow, overflow. This is what it does: It rights wrongs. It nulls failure. It makes dark light. It replaces despair for joy, understanding for trust, brokenness for redemption.

Fill me up, God.

Overflow, overflow, overflow. May your [coffee] cup overflow.


What do you think?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s