Adults approaching forty occupy a unique space in the life cycle. Having moved beyond their teenage years, they have accumulated their own stories about lived challenges and opportunities. They have learned a great deal about their unique gifts, skills, and passions. At the same time, it is unlikely that they have begun to exercise their full personal capacity or experience the process of physical diminishment to the same degree as their elders.

We are pails of many colors

shapes and marvelous designs,

searching for somethings—anythings

which will fill us to the brim,

sharing one unfortunate flaw:

We are pails of many holes.

The leaks of imperfection

worsen by hurts and fears

until more is lost than

gained by fetching.

“Pour life into me,” we cry,

“which I might hold and carry.”

and when all passes through

we weep, “If only this or that,

a bit more and fast, then

I would have life to give.”

All the while something

quietly wells up,

a flood rising all around

seeps into every pail,

entering first low openings.

Now within and around

still rising a tide consumes the world.

Higher it flows, fills pails

outside in,

up to the brim, then beyond.

Feigning emptiness we miss this:

we are holy pails submerged

in living waters.