On the Sunday of the Baptism of the Lord I woke up
to frozen pipes. Ice everywhere, thick and hard as fiberglass.
Even the dogs slipped and slid. We’d lost power
the night before but had gotten it back, but now the pipes
had frozen and we had no water. It was bitter cold.
At a shallow bend in the river Jordan, the water ran clear,
and Jesus came, and knelt, and bowed his head,
and when he rose up, he rose up streaming.
But my waters had frozen, I was entirely stuck, and I had
to spend an hour in the freezing garage with a hair dryer
and a space heater and outside in the ice where the pipe comes
into the garage from the well until finally I heard something
gurgle and begin to slide, like a Slushy in a Slushy machine,
the tank began to fill, and Barb shouted from inside the house
that water was spitting and flowing out of our faucets.
Stop theologizing. Leave behind all your delicate structures.
Get up, and go out into the cold, and kneel.
Then everything flows. Everything comes spitting
and coughing and flowing, and there is hot coffee,
and there are hot showers, and the water is pouring
down on us, the warm, blessed, cleansing water.