When you think of the humble milk jug, you aren’t thinking of me. I am not humble. I’m actually rather proud. You see, I am a milk jug of rare distinction. While others are content to hold mismatched spoons and collect dust, I am called to a higher purpose. I do nothing short of oversee the fortunes of the family in my care.
They are a rather motley bunch, but I’m fond of them. I get dusted more regularly than the plain, useless dishware. Every morning they wave hello and each evening they nod me their thanks. I don’t need it really. I know that without me they’d all starve and be worse off than they already are. They know it too. I’m sure.
I have been placed on a high shelf, as befits one of such importance and all the better to see the entire kitchen. It’s a small room and not very well laid out. It’s not my family’s fault. It was the builders of this place. There isn’t nearly enough light and almost no workspace, hardly any storage at all. It’s rather drab and uninspiring really.
My job isn’t to help them with decor, though I am beautiful to behold, or worse, the drudgery of cleaning. No. My work, my joy, is to gently, yet firmly, intercede on my family’s behalf with the Universe. It requires a great deal of tenacity and subtley. Not many can do it. But I can.
As long as I am here and well looked after, there will always be enough. The table will always have something on it. The clothing will always last just a little longer. The home repairs won’t be quite as hard as they might have otherwise been. Prosperity will come when it is needed the most. All these things and more will fill me up until I overflow and pour out onto my family.
Because I am The Milk Jug. Far more precious than others of my kind. And far more powerful than you will ever know.