God is Like My Water Bottle

God is Like My Water Bottle

Photo by Tim Graves. Creative Commons License BY-NC-ND 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/
Photo by Tim Graves. Creative Commons License BY-NC-ND 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/
God is like my water bottle.
I put stickers on it,
defining what I believe & think.

But the labels are not God;
labels constrict the mysterious One.

God is like my water bottle.
I carry it with me wherever I go,
except when I flirt with a cup of tea.

But the teacup is not God;
it’s too fancy & off-putting to be the One I know.

God is like my water bottle.
It gives me what I need on a hot day,
without pretentious colors or additives.

But God can be fancy, too;
like a work of art the Holy One moves me.

God is like my water bottle.
I drop it on craggy rocks,
and allow dust & dirt to cover the spout.

But the dents & chipped paint do not stop divine love;
my water bottle still quenches my thirst.

God is like my water bottle.
Its scars and wounds reflect
my journey and struggles,
manifesting an empathetic love.

God is like my water bottle.
Despite the labels, abandonment, & abuse,
when I reach for it, it is nearby & ready to satiate.

God is like my water bottle.
I can share it with others,
with or without the labels of opinion that coat it.

God is like my water bottle.
When I take a sip,
what is within flows through me.

But God is not really my water bottle.

The sacred love is more like the water within,
the water that molds canyons,
the water that is home to the salmon & porpoise,
the water that greens the grasses and
collects on snow-capped peaks.

My water bottle is just my feeble attempt to
control,
define,
restrict,
and manage the great mystery that
knits all of creation into One.

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Waters of Hope

The dry creek bed is my angst,
      my dammed fears and grief.

The white rushing waters,
      are my heaving sobs.

The waters falling from high above,
      refresh my soul,
            cleanse my heart, &
               remind me that I am beloved.

As the sun rises,
     the blue waters flow past,
          collecting our tears,

Tears of hope that cut through rock,
     and mountains of despair,
          to create a new world of hope.

Photos top to bottom:
A dry creek bed near Coyote Wall in Washington state. Photo by Tim Graves
The rushing water of the White Salmon River near Husum, Washington. Photo by Tim Graves
The Cabin Creek falls along the Mt. Defiance trail in Oregon. Photo by Tim Graves
The morning sun on the Columbia River near Mosier, Oregon. Photo by Tim Graves
The Columbia River flows reliably toward the Pacific, creating its path through the Cascade Mountains.This photo is taken from near the peak of Mt. Defiance in Oregon. Photo by Tim Graves