Wring and Gather

I want to wring the sweetness out of these days like some orange squeezed well. I want to gather the beauty as if there were jewels scattered upon the ground. I want to scoop up joy as a man, parched, cradles water in his hands to quench the thirst.
I fear that if I do not wring and gather and scoop I will suffocate from the grief twisting my breath. I will shrivel with the ugly spewing over each day. If I do not scoop the joy, I will be left bitter, destitute.
Though I am convinced I will be consumed by this fire, scorching, I recognize the face of my God, with me, walking among the flames. I am learning, in my weakened state, that I am unable to wring or scoop or gather. Yet, He hears my cries of distress and answers. He startles me with one more treasure: time with my Best.  Another moment of joy: a baby, gurgling, smiling at me.
And on the days that feel too withered, He squeezes out drops of sweetness, a note, a call, so I may relish His goodness, and be revived.
Though the tears may drip, steady, He is able to wring and gather and scoop until I know.
In these days, the Lord, Himself, is my prize.