Captive

I cup my hands as water sloshes. Hold it there, steady, steady. Not a drop wasted, squandered, lost. 

Take every thought captive, the Bible says. Make it obedient to Christ.

What if your thoughts are a flood, a torrent, a deluge? What if capturing thoughts is like trying to hold a gallon of water between leaky palms?

“Here, hold this,” I thought God said. “Here are your thoughts: keep them, cherish them, do not waste them, purify, and sanctify them. Hold this for me, I’ll be back in a minute.”

I took Him literally. Scared to waste, to drop, to move, to fail. Account for every droplet. Every minute. Every action until they submit to obedience.

I press my fingers together, but the tighter I grip, the faster the water spills out. Plip plop, plip plop. Failure drips through my fingers, cramped and frozen.

I can’t find the leak. 

No, I am the leak.

I press harder and harder, but the dripping speeds.

Until a therapist asks a question. What if it’s not God? What if it’s an Obsession? A Compulsion? Disorder? What if you stopped trying to hold it all? What if I taught you how?

Could I do that? Just. Let go?

I am learning. Re-wiring. Releasing my hands.

I am not holding the water. I let it hold me. I am floating on my back. Sun kissing freckles on my face. Cool water lapping at my ears. I glide my fingers across the water’s surface, imagine the ripples bubbling out of my wake.