Many Pots, Not A Few

     I arrived a few minutes late. In my hand, I held a notebook and pen. The Library was alive with activity even though it was six o’clock at night. I found the room, on the second floor, where we were to meet for the first Spilling group. I didn’t really know what a “Spilling” was, something to do with writing. I decided to join the group to support my writer friend, Nichole.

    As we gathered together, the six of us, I nervously eyed the chocolate she had placed on the little table in the center of the glass windowed room. At 6:15 Nichole started the meeting officially.

“Ladies, she said dramatically, “tonight we are going to spill, this means we will write for 20 minutes without stopping to correct, criticize, or edit. We will let our words spill on the page, and when the time is done, we will put down our pens without apologies.”

    A nervous hush settled over the group as we introduced ourselves. We were diverse in age and occupation, skill and association, but for this small dash of time, we were united with our pens and in purpose. We were going to allow our hearts to speak.

     I sat there dumbly, not understanding the magic of the present opportunity or how it would inspire me to discover a deep well, ever flowing from inside. Looking at my dear friend, I smiled in support, after all, I was here to support her. I would “spill” so that she could feel supported and able to explore writing more boldly, and confidently. What a good friend I was.

    The timer was set, so the pens began scrawling and a memory started to arise under pressure, under collaboration from the vestiges of my mind. I began sharing a story of “the fuzzy blue robe”
http://diannesings.blogspot.com/2016/09/fuzzy-blue-robe.html .

Though the memory was 36 years old it came up close. So close I could reach out and touch it. I also discovered the baby me, looking shyly into my eyes and whispering her thoughts.

     The timer went off, we took a deep breath and took turns around the circle sharing what we wrote. When it became my turn I started reading with a trembling voice as I shared each word. As I finished the other women were crying too, for the little girl I once had been. After sharing I felt energized and stronger, I felt vibrant and brave. I started out feeling creatively barren, but as I began to spill fresh words, like a spring of water, I felt restored.

    In that moment I was reminded of an old story I had heard and read many times. Somehow it connected me to the wonder the spilling created inside.

    There was an old man who lived in Israel. He lived his days in faithfulness to the One true God. Carefully he set out to follow his God in every way he could, but one day the Lord took him home unexpectedly. His widow was hard working no one would debate, but still, the taxes exceeded the living of a humble prophet. Soon the debt collectors were threatening to take her two sons as slaves to cover her husband’s debts. In desperation, she made her way to the most influential prophet of the company, Elisha.

    He saw her coming on the dusty road and turned to meet her. Desperation etched in the lines of her face she spoke, “Prophet Elisha, may I bid you a moment to hear my woe? She asked heart wrenched.

With full attention on her pleading face, he replied, “What can I do for you?”

    Overtaken by the sorrow she dropped to her knees, as tears wet the dust beneath.

“My husband was a prophet and lived a life faithful to the one true God, but now he is dead and the debt collectors would also take my two sons from me to be slaves so that I would be bereaved not only a husband but also my two sons, his legacy, and mine.”

    Silent for a moment the old prophet absorbed the weight of her burden. Slowly he spoke, “What do you have dear woman?”

     Looking down at the threadbare fabric, now tear stained and soiled she shook her head, “I only have this jar of oil she said.” Lifting her hand she revealed a jar of oil her husband used for the purpose of anointing. She had brought it as a gift in his memory, but as she offered it to Elisha he put up his hand to stop her.

“No, dear woman keep this oil, and go ask your neighbors and ask your friends for empty jars. Gather many Pots, not a few. You intended to give a little gift, but God plans to give you in abundance.”

    So the little woman stood on her feet, wiping her tears with her free hand, she thanked the Holy man and started back on the road toward her small village. On her return, her two sons met her eagerly.

“Go to the neighbor's houses and ask for empty pots,” She told them.

“How many Mother?”

“As many as will be given and bring then to me quickly, don’t delay.”

     The two boys ran from one house to another to gather empty pots. With arms full in danger of toppling, the boys unloaded jars to their eager mother as they turned to find even more. She began to take the oil and pour it into the empty jars. In amazement, she watched as the first jar was filled, but more oil was still found in her husband's little jar of anointing oil. Pot after pot was filled to the brim with oil until she called for another pot, but her sons did not have anymore. Looking around, the floor was covered in oil filled Jars. With tears in their eyes, they could not fully grasp the miracle before them.

“My sons, come quickly, we must sell the oil in the market today.”

After selling every pot of oil, they were able to pay off all the debts and live off the rest. The Lord used the very last blessing she had to bring a break through that over flowed.   

     Little did I know that as the spilling continued, the oil would continue to flow. Words that had been pent up behind a writer’s block would find the cracks in the wall and break through. Little did I know that as Nichole spent the time organizing this opportunity to spill, she was setting us free to share the thoughts, views, and feelings of the heart.

     She was taking the oil in her jar and pouring into our empty vessels, such inspiration didn’t run out or run dry but seemed to only increase. Opening up a flood of creativity. As we came together and experienced community we started to believe we were not creatively barren anymore, but we had something creative with in. It just took one brave woman with a little pot of oil to ask us to bring our pots so that she could pour out her inspiration over us.

     A year has passed, I am now writing every day. Inspiration continues to flow and I am grateful for my friend Nichole, seeing more in me than a supportive friend. But beyond that, God knows the gifts he has planted in us and he will bring others to come and draw them out. He invites us to be willing to pour out those gifts into many pots, not a few.