Thirsty

Like the Water-Wendell Berry

LIKE THE WATER
of a deep stream,
love is always
too much.
We did not make it.
Though we drink till we burst,
we cannot have it all,
or want it all.
In its abundance
it survives our thirst.
IN THE EVENING WE COME DOWN TO THE SHORE
to drink our fill,
and sleep,
while it flows
through the regions of the dark.
It does not hold us,
except we keep returning to its rich waters
thirsty.
WE ENTER, WILLING TO DIE,
into the commonwealth of its joy.

Thoughts of thirst, water, and joy stay with me these days. I think I am thirsty for many things, but it mostly boils down to God.

I attended Mass with a friend this morning, for the first time in a couple of weeks. It felt wonderful. The readings brought forth images of a thirsty desert people drinking water gushing forth from a rock, and a Samaritan woman entranced by her conversation with an interesting Jewish man who promised to give her living water, water that would forever quench her thirst. Naturally, she was curious.

Dry myself, I sat in the pew and let the words soak me like rain. I loved hearing about the complaining people who reminded me of myself, wondering if they had come out into the desert to die. No, no. Love would not bring them that far only to allow them to perish from lack of water. No. For the beloved, water from a rock.

Or eavesdropping on a conversation between a thirsty Jesus and a woman who had a bucket to draw water from Jacob’s well. I could imagine holding a bucket up to my lips and taking long deep drafts of water that would slide down my throat and drip from my chin. An abundance of water.

The physical water would be good enough, but today I was inundated with the abundance of Love as well. The drink that slakes the longing for what is complete and whole. The Holy Mystery.

I gulped down the words and the sermon, delivered by an unusually gifted preacher. I felt the hands that held my own when we exchanged peace. I savored the host and relished the warmth of the wine. I rejoiced in reconnecting with a friend I hadn’t seen for over thirty years, and common friends that rejoiced in the reunion.

A friend and I shared homemade baba ghanouj and quinoa pilaf. We took a long walk along neighborhood streets soaking up sun and discovering a small park.

I called a friend at his monastery to see how he was doing. (Too much lifting at 90. He is tired out!)
My daughter and her friend came over bearing gifts of unbelievably delicious cup cakes made with lots of butter, cream, Baileys, Jameson, and Guinness in honor of St. Patrick, of course.

Love always IS too much. But today, I am luxuriating in its abundance and offering prayers of gratitude for the joy that it holds for us all.