Holy water filled her insides

http://www.usccb.org/bible/readings/032820.cfm
Jeremiah 11:18-20
John 7:40-53

I had quite a bit of trouble writing a succinct reflection this week about ideology and love, the direction of study I followed after reading both John 7 and Jeremiah 11. Good stuff, just too much to think about. So, I punted out a poem instead.

Holy Water Filled Her Insides

A parched red-headed Galilee girl
stood listening with her father,
heads both turned to catch the words,
spoken slowly, yet with such power.
A fellow they both knew from before,
now keen, now enlarged — wisely tempered.

The father leaned forward, stared with intent.
The young girl peered at the man, too.
Wrapped tightly, one arm around the other,
wondered, pondered, raised brows,
for the man spoke oddly of water.

Tanned, the man spoke from a spot
beside a temple’s worn, weathered column.
He’d leaned upon it, left arm raised high —
a woodman’s ways changed to prophet.
The festival’s pilgrims harkened to him.

She’d seen his booth tented amidst others,
one like the thousands so evenly hitched.
Bright, lit simply in dusty air, yet, unique.
On a cask of water, he sat, pitched
And chatted with followers all week.

He hailed from their home — Nazareth.
She met him playing hide and seek.
She hid, crouched — he easily found her
behind a stack of cedar brown planks.
He spied her, waved, and then teased:

“Is it you, young one, who found my wood?
Have you saved it for my profit?”

She eyed him, nodded, then bound away,
arms pumping, running, and left him.
Heard him laugh, a friendly kindly man.
Looked back, in flight, he was grinning.
She waved, giggled, and flew on home.

Twice more she had come upon him.
Her father traded rope for mantel blocks.
Her mother knew his mom, Mary.
Both times he graced her flowing locks.
A brother’s touch, mere, lovely.

In Galilee each man is weighted,
sorted, according to his accent.
Each time the Galilean spoke, 
the young girl knew that voice.
Her almost brother, called Jesus.

Nazareth twanged in his words,
placing his genesis among her ilk.
Common speech to her liking.
Not harsh, not bold, like silk.
He now spoke oddly of water.

“Let anyone who thirsts
come to me and drink,” he said.

She licked her lips, but saw no cask.
He’d forgot it, she reckoned.
She asked her father where it was.
She saw no water. Why did he offer?
The dryness cracked in her voice.

Her father’s wine bag helped a bit.
Clear crisp water would be better.
Crossing her arms, she pouted,
“I can’t believe he said water,
and then didn’t hand any out!”

“Whoever believes in me, 
as scripture says:
‘Rivers of living water 
will flow from within him.’”

The father lifted the girl to his face.
He kissed and smoothed her hair.
“My red top treasure, my daughter.
Your mother will have some water.
Jesus’ speaks of God’s Spirit.”

As he told her this, he realized,
such power was unknown, rare and new.
The Messiah, the Christ, the one,
might live in this Gallilean he now knew.
The father’s startled eyes met Jesus.

He placed his daughter beside him,
transfixed as he was, transformed.
Jesus explained what he barely knew,
yet the thirst inside felt informed.
Not water, but water — oddly made sense.

His daughter skipped to her mother,
dress brushing the spellbound crowd.
She bounded through mesmerized traffic
found her mom, and shouted out loud,
“I need to bring Jesus some water!”

“Oh, do you?” her mother asked calmly.
“Take your drink first,” she insisted.
The girl did, then left with some water, 
to the temple she skipped unresisted
to Jesus. The father saw her arrive.

She held up a water bag, lifted
Jesus smiled, bent down, touched her hair
“You are so clever, so thoughtful, dear sister.”
She eyed him, nodded, then turned away
arms pumping, refreshed and enlivened.

Holy water now filled all her insides,
Her water passed around to the crowd
She raced back to the arms of her father.
She held tight, cooed that she loved him,
overjoyed to be both sister and daughter.