I Think I Understand

 

I Think I Understand

([Jesus said] “Do you love me?” Peter said, “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.” John 21:17b)

I can’t help but wonder what you might
ask of me.
I’ve finally figured it out, though, that you
do not want to shame me. You meet me here in this moment,
ask me a question about where I live now. Not how I lost it
back then. Not how guilt forced me to forge my way to the one
thing I found comforting before you ever tapped me on the shoulder.

I barely understand you most of the time.
And when I do understand something inside starts off
dreamily
but ends up, quite frankly, wishing I had not heard.
What do you call a casual friend who knows every move
you’re about to make before you have even given a moment’s
thought?

One: I wasn’t ready for the question.

Two: I acted like I had no clue.

Three: I needed to warm my hands by the fire. I swore with
            the maiden who insisted she knew.

And then you had to walk by and look at me. I did not have
time to hide. You were already beaten to an inch of your life
but, that look, that gaze that was a blade to my heart, was a wavelength
that caught me unawares.

You have no reason to think I love you. But you knew my answer
buried deep under the rubble of my shame. You deftly pulled the words
from my tongue like
1,2,3,.
And I felt ready to cry again upon my confessions of love for you.

I turned away when you needed amity; I damned myself the moment
you saw my reddening face. But you never insisted,
never elicited an apology from me. I think you could see it
in how I shrunk back quietly to the previous comforts I practiced
before I knew you.

You told me to feed your sheep, and I felt I had nothing to give.
But I will care for them as if they are mine. Do you trust me so,
given all my stumbles in the dark?

You won’t let me wallow in the past,
you never held it against me at all. I think I
understand
this part.
Why heap shame on a man whose entire face
shows such deep wrinkles of self-administered guilt?
I think I understand.

Fractured Segments, Consonants and Vowels

Fractured Segments, Consonants and Vowels

“’My daughter’s going to die! My daughter’s going to die!’ he pleaded. ‘Please come—lay your hands on her—rescue her and let her live!’” Mark 5:23

Below the hum of marketplace rustle there are the
bass notes of a parent in pain. Troubles wind through
his throat and land at the bottom of his feet. He has no
breath
to project his plea much further.
But there is an ear that hears all,
there are feet that come closer to discern
the consonants and vowels that explode underneath.
And he took those fractured segments and turned them
into a dirge
that heard the anxiety that felt like a bat trying to break
out of the crying father’s chest.

It was like standing in a whirlwind, slow motion,
it was a tornado of fear.
It was like the sun had forced its way past his eyes
and seared his aching heart. It was like the moon
did not
exist at all.

He could not contain the weight that smoldered inside his chest,
he could not choose anything other than this unrest
that blinded him to the fog of people swarming with
their constant hum and cajole. He could only see the one
he hoped would see him. He could only see the
shadows that fell fast over him.

“Come”, he said, not knowing the answer.
“She is dying,” he said, not knowing the outcome.

He heard nothing but the eyes that heard, and heard
feet that were ready to follow him home. Everything
was smoky,
was befogged,
was blurry,
as the healer listened and came to his home. Live or
die,
he knew his hope was tied to a stranger that acted
like a friend.