myself, a sister. blessed.

My own outrageous greed and pettiness, feeling hard done by for carrying my heavy bag and going to do the shopping for church. ‘So much travelling, my arms ache, why can’t I just go home already’. Then as I sat with the sun warming my face (outrageous grace) I thought. My sister – however hard it may be to authentically and truly identify with her as such – are even now walking back hours from wells with muddy water, Maybe some boys tease her and push her and the can falls…water spills. Rivers runs hurriedly into earth cracked, to nourish there. So begins the long trek back to the well, hours added to the long journey. It may be dark by the time she is on this road back again, by which time obstacles more dangerous than teasing boys may be waiting.

My sister who wakes at 4 in her flat, more empty every day as she sells furniture in exchange for train fare. Goes to collect the fruit and veg, fingers cold, loads heavy, air damp, dark. Wonders why. All through the weary day a voice in her head ‘you best not stop coming’. A couple of hours sleep, station platform. Smiling cab driver shows up, a familiar smile, life in the thick of death. Outrageous grace.

Come to me, all who are thirsty and heavy laden, and I will give you rest. All your fountains are in me.

Water can’t help but nourish what is there. It runs eagerly into every crack, even coaxing open new ones. Ground which is already saturated still needs topping up, but its real focla point by now is the fruit which grows from it. But there is also beauty in watching as parched earth gradually, inevitably yields to the trickle which threatens to break it apart – for resurrection. Even if it spills from a can, even if i doesn’t change the fear that lurks when he gets out, even if I have to carry my bags.

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