(“Then
He said to them all, ‘If anyone wants to come with Me, he must deny himself,
take up his cross daily, and follow Me.’” Luke 9:23)
The storm
threatened more than mud and slime,
it continued to mock both function and design.
It was predicted,
and we evicted the plans we had for a picnic
afternoon.
It drove
us to pray for promised deliverance,
It captured our imprisoned intelligence.
It was so sudden
there was hail in the garden
and conversations were muddled well into
the evening.
We watched
and wondered at the thunder that
drove so many home. We woke later than usual
with eyes red from dust and distrust as we ached
over the mockingbird’s song that repeated the
false charges, wary accusations, and verdicts
made of sand.
(Crucify)
And we breathed
the air that was burning plastic,
acrid and across from the garden torn up by
the onlookers in their rush to ridicule with words
the prisoner nailed to lumber. Why won’t he
come down? No one wanted to see that, of course.
No one wanted to spend more than half a day
glaring at the sky stripped of everything that
would open their eyes.
Everything
turned black, every sign was
beyond belief. Every person felt that pain in
their chest and their minds found no rest as they
wondered why he ever was called a king.
Before the
storm we heard him say they might
(Crucify)
Him. But
that day was sunny and we never imagined he meant anything more than some days would go slower, that some days might be over later than we imagined.
Now the
storm, the thunder, the pounding drops of rain
so thick they kicked up the dust all combined to confirm
our hope was gone. We could not let this night go by
(Crucify)
We did not
know the storm would pass, at least not
that we could predict. But women found the
garden in the morning sun and surprised us all with
something we hoped was a new dawn,
a fresh beginning, a new ache that makes us
want nothing more than to follow, storm or sunlit days,
the trajectory that disengages us from reliance on
various changes in the wind.
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