an amethyst anointing

There is, perhaps, no chore I hate more than washing dishes. I adore cooking, especially for others. But I would willfully avoid dishes forever if I could. And yet I love a window above a kitchen sink. A glimpse into something else while I scrub away cheesy bits and coffee remnants. 

I close my eyes, inhaling deeply the lemon dish soap. And I am transported to a different kitchen sink. I couldn’t tell you what the view outside of the window is, I just know there is an abundance of light. My eyes instead focus on the bottles lining the windowsill. Immediately I am drawn to the amethyst bottle. I go to reach for it but I can’t, merely observing in this vision it seems. Each bottle is unique, a dazzling variety, a collective prism. Splashing colors across the kitchen. The colors mean something, I am so deeply sure of it. 

Each bottle contains liquid, I think it might be clear. Differing amounts I assume, though hard to be sure with the variety of shapes. It could be an illusion, really they all have the same amount. I certainly would never be able to tell. If this were my windowsill and my little bottles, I would have put flowers in them. Something small and wild, picked on a run just because it delights me. I’ve decided I need a windowsill like this someday. 

And then I am suddenly aware that this is my windowsill and those are my bottles. 

“You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.” 

A sharp intake of breath as the weight of the reality settles on me. My tears, truly collected in bottles. Beautiful bottles, a way to honor the sorrows. Tears quickly filling my eyes, laughter spilling from deep within. I have cried so many tears over the years. Many shed unseen and yet here they are on full display. Bringing beauty into this kitchen as the light hits them so. A wonder to behold. 

Perhaps my tears really weren’t wasted. Certainly not as I stare at them now, collected with care and put on display. Not one moment of sorrow or anguish forgotten. And I feel relief. So often the tears fell with no witness and no resolution. But there has always been a witness. One who acts with deep tenderness and love. One who has taken the salty chaos of my life and let it mark space with beauty. What a gift to behold. A glimpse into something far more eternal than that which caused the tears. 

And then I saw God, it had to have been God. For there are no words I can choose to fully describe this Being. Light, warmth, peace, and love certainly. And a deep assurance that this is who carefully collected each tear. God stands at the sink and I realize that I am in the sink, or some version of me I get to watch. I hold my breath in wonder, what is it I am granted a glimpse of? 

I’m curled up in the sink, knees drawn tightly to my chest. I look as though I’m holding onto them for dear life. I feel the love of God expand. And now I’m in the sink. Fully living this moment, whatever it may be. 

God picks up a jade bottle and breathes deeply. 

“Truly your tears were never wasted.”

Slowly, gently, the tears are poured out onto me. Not hot, not cold, not bitter. God whispers to me what every tear was. Each moment of heartbreak and anguish. Each time I was forgotten, overlooked, and left out. Every book and song and dance that made me weep. God listened. God remembered. And as I sit in that sink, washed by my own pain, God begins to weep. God’s tears washing over me. Every ache I held, God held with me. 

I was cleansed by my tears. I am baptized by God’s tears. 

And I am undone. 

Another bottle lifted from the sill. Whispers of every injustice I saw. Of every lonely moment felt. Each time I took the high road and it broke me open each step. Every good bye I wasn’t ready for. Each time my brain and I could not agree on reality. Not a single moment forgotten. A careful catalogue of my deepest pains. And each tear of mine is matched with a tear from God. 

Not for a moment was I alone in my tears. Even when I hid in the car, a bathroom, a bed, a closet, or a shower. It turns out there has always been an audience, but not a passive one. God has wept with me. Seen my pain and sorrow and never once looked away. Listened, leaned in, and never forgot. Carefully, tenderly, collecting each tear. 

Letting me be cleansed by my own salty pain. Often cathartic in the moment, now being used to cleanse me, make me new. My pain was never forgotten. Shaping me into who I get to be now. God’s tears baptizing me into a new life. Granting peace and companionship. I have never wept alone. I have never been alone. 

Over and over bottles are poured out. Each moment of tears retold to me with deep compassion. Because God watched and sat with me in each moment. With every bottle, every memory I am more sure. More sure of love, more sure of peace. More sure that every painful moment wasn’t lost in the chaos. 

The amethyst bottle, my favorite, is last. This one is different. These are tears of joy. Bearing witness to life and love, laughter running from my eyes. Every inside joke. Every camp costume. These mattered too. Once again, matched by God. God who is laughing (is this laughing, it feels radiant and wild). 

The other tears were a baptism. These tears? These are an anointing. Sealing up what has been done here in this sacred sink. This holy kitchen. I have lived a life that so often feels like it is marked by sorrow and grief. I know sadness well and deeply. And yet, it is the joy that anoints me. It is the joy that will mark me. 

My eyes fly open. Standing at my own sink. Dishes still waiting. And I weep, knowing the tears will be collected. Knowing that God will weep. My emotions never wasted or mocked. Each experience matters to God, to me. 

I have been baptized by the tears of God. I have been anointed by the tears of God. 

I am undone. 

I am whole. 

I will listen for the sound of another weeping when I believe myself to be all alone. For I am not and I have never been. And I wonder if I will know the sound of my tears being collected in bottles.