The floor creaks and keeps me company, like friends lingering together long after the last drink, determined to tell all the tales and sing all the songs before calling it a night. Of course, the floorboards only chirp & groan in the early morning and at the end of the day, when they can be certain of no interruptions. If I take a step, they scold and silence me. Even the moon is hushed to listen, or maybe she is quietly jealous of the nearby star that is outshining her tonight — which is ridiculous, if only she would stop to realize it, for that pinpoint of light is like a beauty mark on the glow she casts over the rooftops and sidewalks. How did we become so competitive over the spotlight? … Does it matter? If the moon cannot hide her jealousy, how can we? Still I try to soothe her forlorn expression by turning out the indoor lights until hers is the only one to be seen. And while the moon waxes with sorrow, the hardwood resumes its soliloquy on age and time and grace under pressure; the stories soothe my spirit like perfume over the feet of one who was weary. It is time for me to sit at his feet again, to laugh long and listen longer like friends who are determined not to get up from the table until everything has been said, until they are ready to cede their turn to the moonlight and the floorboards and the knowledge that nighttime always fades into morning.
on John 12:1-3