“ and many women who had come from Galilee with Jesus to care for him were watching from a distance.” Matthew 27:55 NLT
Friday, before the sun sets
Red-eyed women gather, scatter
scrounge.
The rites to perform, the myrrh, linens
perfumes.
All afternoon, huddled together
in the darkness before the cross.
Their loss immeasurable.
Sobs punctuated with the jarring
of the earth beneath their feet.
Now wait in grief.
Bound by tradition,
Sabbath strictures
they cannot seek Him out.
Cannot wash and anoint the
battered body, the dear wounds.
Exquisite agony,
the waste of time,
forced inaction, inconsolable
the fiery need to be there, find his tomb.
Pay love’s last due.
The Passover moon full, tinted rose-gold Rises, reflects light into a world shrouded in darkness. A sphere of hope, a time of remembrance. Exodus, the gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.
Salvation comes for a people once enslaved. Hope shines for a people sheltered in fear. Death is near. Life is here. We huddle separated, together.
The cup of Salvation is in His hand. We lift up our cups of pressed grapes and sip His words, His sustenance into our own. The cracked bread we consume, our daily bread, His provisions for eternity.
“ I will lift up the cup of Salvation and praise the Lord’s name for saving me” Psalm 116:13
Did it rain in Jerusalem tears streaking down from heaven in an outpouring of heavenly grief— mirroring ours?
Rain cold, steady the wind chill driving us to wait indoors, huddled undercover watching the flickering firelight the faint glow of candles inside shuttered windows. all night all the long Saturdays, the never-ending shabbat
an intermezzo a world in mourning.
Who believes Easter is coming? Who has faith life will rise again— somehow, some when? A promised resurrection
Your glory nods, curtseys close to the ground. Anticipation of sorrows found? Petals veil, hide your pointed heart. First flower in spring, first sign of hope. Stained in the crush of the Savior’s bleeding feet you play your part.
Seek shelter from the rain that freezes all it touches— remain undercover, indoors, cozy by a blazing fire. Admire from afar the crystalizing wood-scape.
A layer of ice forms, clings enwraps every unprotected thing and if I open up this window after a blast of winter chill will I hear the birds sing darting to and fro the feeders before flitting back to safety in the cedars?
“ Look up at the sky and see God in a cloud” David Lehman
Empty yourself and gaze in rapture heavenward contemplate a moment or two as the sun peeks coming out from between the cumulonimbus.
An indistinct silhouette, radiant, viewed in a singular photograph, halo’d by sunlight— a figure appears poised above the planet Earth, striking through a fracture in the clouds. Arms open in blessing or welcome.
Could it be a reflection from a prior millennium— Christ in ascension over the hills of Bethany disciples’ faces raised in apparent awe? Or maybe a premonition of prophecy, the long hoped for return in His full Majesty? Oh, let His Kingdom Come!
Possibly, anyone’s guess, a trick of shadows, a figment of someone’s fertile imagination? The image shared hand to hand, scanned into media. Or could it be an intimation of what will be? Envision Faith— not to be spurned the blessed Hope. One day yes, all, everyone, will see together His glory explode from the firmament and all life, belief confirmed in Him.
“Why are you standing here staring into the heaven? Jesus has been taken from you into heaven, but someday he will return from heaven in the same way you saw him go.” Acts 1:11 NIV
The man in the moon, tired, turned the job over to his daughter, but as she’s kind of shy all you can see of her is one fingernail lighting up the sky.
“The fragrant air of Paradise returns the aged to their youth.”
Skip like a child down the gold paved streets. Wave and smile, laugh with joy to everyone you meet. All your long-departed family and friends you had hoped and longed to see again.
Grab hands, “ring around the rosy” with parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, children you wished you had known to the tune “Holy, Holy, Holy” all the same: ageless, merry.
Juggle fruit from the tree of Life. Toss it back and forth: saint to saint. No complaint if one drops on a toe or a poor throw lands another in the River pouring from the Throne.
No one here will ever be alone. No one neglected, forlorn no tears to cry or cheeks to dry no one deaf or blind or disabled. No limping, no joints to creak. Alive and lively with God Almighty A never ending streak of glory, Leap for Joy!
Who made this quilt, each delicate stitch, flowers abloom in feed-sack prints? The answer lies buried somewhere: my mothers’s beloved aunt, a grandmother or a great aunt, great-grandmother. No one alive who knows or can remember.
I slept snugged up under it all my childhood years. Pulled it up below my chin, all tucked in from the winter chills. Washed and dried time after time, hung outside on an old clothesline, kissed by the sun and a gentle wind. No thought then of long term preservation. Worn and threadbare, edges and binding unraveled. The batting leaking through the faded petals.
The quilt followed me everywhere— each move from house to house, town to town never misplaced—never lost. no longer in use, I refuse to toss it out as so much rags: Someone’s loving care, someone’s industrious fingers, their hours of endless labor linger freely bestowed to beautify, comfort a life.
What to do with it now? this battered, tattered quilt? Should I cut out and frame a remnant or two? Form a collage bouquet in photographs? Keep it entire as a reminder of the application of love? Or shall I make a small pillow out of it with ruffled lace upon which I will lay my face and dream I am a child, peaceful in its embrace.
