Cup

We all have a Cup.

Placed in front of us, we've all stared down this Cup, thinking, looking calculating. We've looked up and said politely, "No thanks. I don't want it. I pass."

The Cup is pushed forward.

Again, perhaps a little firmer, "No. I don't want it. Take it from me."

The Cup is placed in our hands and we resist the urge to throw it against the wall. "No! Oh, HE LL NO. I don't want it! I am NOT going to drink from it and YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!"

We think we have a choice: take this Cup or not. The truth is, we really don't have a choice. We want the choice,we wish we had a choice but there really isn't a choice. It's there, it's ours and we have to have it.

"Take this Cup. Pleasepleaseplease take this Cup. I don't want it, I can't drink from it. It's too much."

We sob and cry and wail against the Cup. We pound our hands, pitching a fit like a two year old, wailing about how unfair it is to receive the Cup.

After a bit we calm down and sniffle, looking at it. We know we have no choice. It's there, it's ours. Not drinking from it really isn't an alternative because not accepting it would lead to disaster. No, allowing the Cup to pass would mean a horrible alternative, one far worse than drinking from it.

Sniffling, we take a tentative sip and then down the contents in one fell swoop.

In agony, the Cup becomes a Cross. In the dark recesses of our mind, we are bitter that we drank from the Cup- although we know there was no real alternative. We heave our Cross on our shoulders, dragging it forward, stumbling forward into the abyss.

Then . . . light. We look up, squinting into the light in the darkness. It's dim at first, then brighter. We step forward slowly.

Brighter.

A lightness. Tentatively, we look back. There is someone there (Someone?) holding the end, carrying our Cross with us. He smiles. We smile back slowly.

We raged against the Cup, struggled with the Cross but there is always someone there to carry you through it...

to step together to the light.