I Want to Drink Like Terracotta

I think one of the most brilliant colors is wet terracotta. Do you know what I'm talking about? The burnt red and orange all mixed into one as water meets near dust, baked earth. Have you ever seen rain fall on a terracotta roof? You know the exact shape of the first fallen rain drops as the water stays exactly where it landed. The terracotta so thirsty a drop of rain has no chance to spread. It hit something so parched it's outline remains. Yet it's absorbed so quickly you can watch the tile go back to dry red/orange. Ceramic clay. As it begins to rain harder there are vibrant droplets all over the roof in varying stages of drying. Then eventually it rains hard enough that all is wet. All has turned to the lushest color I know- wet terracotta. Maybe it's not fair to say that's the lushest color I know. Haven't I seen jungles with greens only possible when your in their presence? Yes. Haven't I seen gardens built for kings? Yes. But for me lushness happens in the desert. And for me terracotta will always be in the desert. In Arizona, in New Mexico, in deserts I haven't seen. It's lush because the color of wet terracotta defies everything around it.

I love the desert. I always have. And it's always surprised me. Why do I love deserts? What is it about arid, dry lands that makes me feel so full of life? I think there are two reasons. One is I live in extremes. Most of my personal work over the past few years has been learning to let Jesus redeem my extremity. The all in or all out extremes I navigated my world with were damaging me and others, yet God does not calls us away from extremity. Instead He calls us to our redeemed extremes. God moves in extremity. He shows up in extremity. It's all over His story in Scripture. It's all over His story in my life. Part of redeemed extremity is learning not to curse the middle. The in-between. The not sure. The not there anymore and not here yet. When my extremity is redeemed I can leave it and walk to the middle when that is the best way to engage myself, others, and my world. Unredeemed extremity is a prison, you can't leave. Isolation is it's fruit and chaos it's companion. Anyway, deserts are extreme and I love that. It's blazing hot when the sun is up and freezing cold as soon as the sun sets. The sky is so clear you can almost see that the earth is round when you look up. Everything lives on the edge of death.

The second reason I love the desert is because it's thirsty. Truly thirsty. There's thirst even in the way it drinks. Like terracotta. So porous it's entire surface area has to be watered at very nearly the same time for it to all be wet. And the water has to keep coming or it will drink it all up. This is the most inspiring part of the desert for me. It is not afraid to be as thirsty as it is. There are no pretenses about the water that's not there, and there is no lack of receiving when the rain comes. I want to drink like the desert. Taking in so fully without rationing what I receive in a vain attempt to plan for future lack. Terracotta drinks. You can watch it. Then it's dry again, but it unashamedly takes in what's before it even though it will be thirsty again. It will always be thirsty again because it's a desert thing. But still it drinks. I am made of clay. I know a Fount of Living Water. I want to drink like terracotta.

I'd Hold You By Your Shelves

If I really wanted to get to know you
I'd come and stand in front of your shelves.
I would gaze and run my fingers along the spines that formed yours.
The reasons you love this and hate that; the source of so many longings, connections and beliefs.
Your whys and hows.
I'd look longer at the decrepit bindings, the paperbacks betraying your awe wonder and worship with creased backs, thickened by dog-eared pages.
I'd ask why each single one. And when I got to the one where you said, "This one. This one is my favorite" and could not cheapen the why with words
That one I would read and so hold. So know. So love.
Your shelves betray you. Your depth. Your color. Your care.
I'd hug my knees to my chest. Sit against the wall. Not hearing fingers against page nor any noise so foreign.
Only the sound of having you close.
Because like Francie knows, holding and understanding are all rolled up into one.
I'd hold you by your shelves.
My book lover, I'd hold you by your shelves.

"I need someone. I need to hold somebody close. And I need more than this holding. I need someone to understand how I feel at a time like now. And the understanding must be part of the holding."
  -Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn