We speak Spanish and English and love. We all hold her baby, and wish we could nurse again. And then we do: we hold each other's burdens and confessions and tear-streaked faces close to the heart, deep in the spirit. And sustenance lets down, fellowship satisfying our hungry souls.
We learn about Lord, that the title means Master to a slave, that it doesn't denote diety, and we've misunderstood: when we call Him Lord, we've identify ourselves as slave. Our slave quarters are this edge of this earth where we cram into a blue room with the dizzy floor and watch wonder enfold before us when we opened the Word, Life. Living water is salt and light.
We Zumba and hug and laugh. We eat too much and talk too late. We are full so our praise spills out in alto and soprano. Relationships grow big and cross language barriers and cultural barriers.
We fill bags with our notes and our memories, and we hope to capture and keep what happens when we retreat from the normalcy and responsibility of daily life to uncork later when life gets dry. We drink in friendship and we are renewed. Blessings are bagged.
It's tiring because we're growing, just like adolescents during that one summer they sleep through.
And we feel the spring sun gently warm our shoulders. We crowd around and hold her, the one afraid. The one with regret that chooses the hard road to righteous. She raises hands most holy and cries out to righteousness Himself, and in it we are all healed.