Every container has a certain capacity. A quart of milk cannot reside in a pint container. A tank full of gasoline reaches its capacity when the pump shuts down—and those last few drops are unable to find a home unless it’s on the ground.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this idea of capacity lately.
For example, I can’t consume the same quantity of food or alcohol that was commonplace for me in my younger days. If I indulge too much, my body is quick to let me know that it was a bad idea.
I also have a very definite capacity for consuming news. I just can’t absorb the level of hate, sadness and tragedy constantly pumped out by the media. After a short time of allowing the news of the day to invade my spirit, I’m left with nothing to do with these feelings, other than to feel miserable about the world.
There was a time when I remember feeling that if I didn’t read the paper, or listen to the morning and nightly news, I’d be ill-informed as to what was going on in the world. But I don’t feel that way anymore…
However, I’ve found an exception to the finite nature of containers. That is my heart. As I watch my family grow and develop, I wonder whether my heart will burst with all the joy and love.
So far, I keep finding more space.
