2 Kings 4: Free Write

I can't seem to figure this out.

This "thing" of ours that I can't call

love or hate or simply a habit.

Stood waiting without knowing how to wait,

without knowing that time isn't the only one that needs passing,

it's the me, my endless thoughts biting at my very core every minute.

You asked for jars and all I brought were my hands.

Cupped with cracks big enough to let rocks through.

At times I stood waiting with crossed arms, unwilling.

My cupped hands weren't big enough to hold

my own expectations

my own goals

my own picture of me.

You asked for jars and all I brought were my hands

You still filled it,

with olive oil.

Barely enough to keep its light green hue.

I stood, knowing you wait, ready to pour into whatever I bring

these ill-sealed hands, I bring to You.

You asked for jars and all I brought were my hands

I stand, knowing you will watch me falter,

let the grease stay on my hands,

let the mess mar me, break me,

You asked for jars.