Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer

On my flight to a writers’ conference in California, I tossed around the idea that God made us porous. Like sponges.

We absorb and we leak.

Everything we listen to, read, and watch soaks into us in some way and seeps out in another.

As I relaxed on the plane, winging over the Rocky Mountains and on to Santa Barbara, I decided I wanted to be a sponge at the conference. I wanted to soak up every little tidbit rather than worry about pitching (talking) to publishers and agents.

Then I realized how self-centered the sponge idea sounded. Was it really all about me, me, me – out to get all I could?

As He does, the Lord corrected me.

“What does a sponge do when it’s squeezed?” He asked.

Well, it gives. It drips out on whatever is nearby, including the hand that is doing the squeezing.

A squeezed sponge can give drink to the thirsty (think Jesus on the cross and those in nursing and hospice care).

It can cool a fevered body.

Wipe away the dirt.

Cleanse.

“Yes, be a sponge,” the Lord whispered inaudibly to my soul. “Absorb Me. Soak up My words. And when you’re squeezed, I’ll come out.”

Anyone who believes in Me may come and drink!
For the Scriptures declare,
‘Rivers of living water will flow from his heart.’
John 7:38

~

As if sensing Bern’s need, Zeke picked up the pace as he trotted to the edge of town and around back of the church to the cemetery. He slowed along the picket fence and stopped across from one of the newer headstones.

Bern dropped the reins and stepped off, then over the low fence where he took a knee at the bottom of the plot.

Ruth wasn’t there waiting for him, he knew that. She was in glory with others who had gone before. She was with their baby boy.

His lungs squeezed until he thought he might keel over and join them right then and there.

Swiping his hat off, he held it against his chest, pressing on the ache so it didn’t leak out his eyes. “I miss you every day. But I know you’re doin’ better than I am.”

Words choked off, stuck behind a knot in his throat that wouldn’t loosen. He drew a slow, deep breath and listened to the evening settle in.

“There’s a woman here named Etta Collier. A widow who treats Gracie like she’s her own daughter. And she’s good to me too.” His head bowed lower, his voice dropped. “Though she’s not you.”

A breeze sighed across the cemetery and lifted the hair from his brow like Ruth used to do. His forelock, she’d called it, and the memory brought a painful smile.

“I might be loving her, Ruth, but I want you to know she’ll never take your place.”

Crickets started in and the wind kicked up, curling around him and teasing a lavender  scent from the small shrub he’d planted close by.

Zeke whiffled low and lifted his head, eyes and ears turned north at an unfamiliar sound.

Bern rose and put his hat on, broke off a purple sprig, and tucked it in his vest pocket as he cleared the fence. He gathered Zeke’s reins, stepped up, and looked back at the white headstone.

“Kiss the baby for me, darlin’.” – Mail-Order Misfire

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