I remember it so vividly, the time I spilled that glass of wine all over your mom’s white tablecloth on Thanksgiving day —
Right in the middle of dinner, as the Turkey was being passed around, absolute chaos ensued! The women rushed toward me to clean, gasping and saying, “it’s okay, honey!”
As it seeped onto the white carpet at my feet
I simply sat there, stunned.
As it all sunk in.
Showed me why I don’t fit in.
You see, I am not clean cloth draped over a solid antique wood table, chandelier gleaming over head,
Silverware made of gold
Napkins folded perfectly into shapes
I am the crushed grapes!
Dripping onto the clean, freshly vacuumed floor
I am the spills and the “oops” and the “I’m sorry!” and the “I didn’t mean to!”
Don’t you get it? I didn’t mean to be me!
I didn’t mean to forget, and to make a mess, and to always be running late
To make choices that were constantly not too great
I didn’t mean to disappoint you
I didn’t mean to be too much
I didn’t mean to be the one who stains everything that was once white
I didn’t mean to never be “right.”
But I see it all so clearly, now
In the blood that was shed from this pale, battle-torn skin of mine
I see the glory of the pain that brought me here, and the beauty of me that you have always refused to see
And you may never know the swirling patterns of magic in it all,
Of pure cloth dipped in wine
Of something mundane spread with deep shades of red
All you know is how to seem pure, and perfect, and “holy …”
But maybe true communion with God is found in the red wine spilt a l l o v e r m e.