Some Days

Some days
I am a midwife,
tugging and pulling a gangling thread of hope out of a despairing soul.

Some days
I am Mother Fixit,
repairing old damages, hinges hanging on by a bent screw, ties that have frayed to a single thread.

Some days
I am a vessel
into which people pour their grief and anger

and as they are emptied, I am filled with choler and melancholy, a spoilt and poisonous brew.

And all I can do is to pour myself out on the altar

and let God change the swirling oily ichor into something pure...

water, perhaps, or even Cana wine. Something that

cleanses
soothes
feeds
renews.