thinking too much...(britta)

You have not known water until you've known Britta water. Talk all you want about dunking your head in cold mountain springs to drink. You can keep the mountain springs. I'll keep my Britta pitcher.

That pitcher has been my comfort in my recent times of being entirely too hot, troubled even, in my not at all airconditioned apartment. In the evenings particularly, when I wish I could go to bed without breaking out in a sweat. But I have found an incredible amount of solace in a cold glass of Britta water at night just before the apex of heat begins to ease from the rooms and a breeze begins to push back the hanging curtains a bit from the open windows.

Those moments of sitting quietly and just drinking beautiful beautiful water, so cold, condensation on the outside of the glass, those moments are too good to wish for the heat to pass too quickly.

If there is anything literal about Jesus giving us living water then there must surely be Britta pitchers in heaven.

So, you can imagine my disgust the other day when the top to my pitcher fell off and a small piece of it broke off upon impact with the floor. I couldn't believe that suddenly my prestine Britta pitcher was showing signs of a mortality that practically made me cry.

If you've ever had something new and perfect and been there to see it acquire it's first monumental sign of wear and tear, I think you might know a bit of my pain, though there are few things as perfect.

It just goes to show that everything passes away. All material possessions will rust and moths will gnaw little holes into things and it all will end up at Saver's Thrift Stores where I'll probably buy most of it at some point and then they'll get more rusty and more moths will gnaw little holes and then I'll throw it all away eventually.

But the point is this: do not give your heart to earthly things. We need to store up treasure in Heaven and stuff.

Actually I hate it when people make such grandiose sweeping moralizations from little trivial twists and turns in the weaving fabric of life stories. And I hate it when sentances get so overdone and flowery that I start smelling my grandmother's potpourri. Irony.

Seriously though, I'm sad about this Britta pitcher lid. Why did that have to happen?

I'm thinking I should get a new Britta to replace this broken one. Not for any materialistic urge, I just have a hard time watching the poor guy suffer.

He was created for such glory. Glory he and I had only faintly begun to taste when it was suddenly vanished from us.

I wish I could tell him that I'm sorry. That he never deserved this. Noone ever does.