But You Stayed

But You Stayed

(“Among them were Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and Joseph, and the mother of the sons of Zebedee.” Matthew 27:45)

You had as much pain as the others,
maybe even more. Did your hearts break open,
did you chest heave in grief? Did you ever think
of turning your back to escape the tragedy you could
barely stomach?

The men ran. They hid. They cowered. Yet you remained.
Was your devotion dearer, your loyalty deeper than reason
should allow. And yet you stayed until the end.

Why this strain of pain? Why this pulling out of every
organ and the lungs elongated so they could not breathe?
Why the mockery? Why the crowds demanding his death?
Yet you remained.

Were you unsettled. Did you cry on each other’s sleeves?
Were there words you remembered like “why have you forsaken me” or
“Father forgive them” or “Into your hands I commend my spirit.”
Did you puzzle each moment and wish you could be a cloud to
cover him from the curses?

And what about Mother Mary and John who stayed near? Did you
shiver when he gave them to each other? Did you wonder that,
in his anguish he would still remember his mom?

You leaned on the rocks of the ravine where you watched him die
on the opposite hill of skulls. And the darkness fell and the atmosphere
chilled and a fear you did not expect, a fear for all your nation,
bid you to take in every moment of this gruesome spectacle.

In three short years he turned your gloom into gladness.
In three short hours he moved you from questions to sadness.
In three short years he opened your eyes to primal love.
In three short hours you wondered if these things would still live
above this midday of sorrow.

But you stayed. And you waited to see where he would be buried
so you could anoint his body properly and meet the divine opportunity
to tell those hiding men that the tomb was empty and the day had
just begun.

This Groggy Heart

This Groggy Heart

(“If you feel you must brag, then have enough sense to brag about worshiping me, the Lord. What I like best is showing kindness, justice, and mercy to everyone on earth.” Jeremiah 9:24)

You stayed long after every thought had its day.
You were the heaviness of contemplation and the
lightness of hilarity when morning came.
My mind is still stuffed with worries,
my brain with the unease that comes from
dreams filled with inadequacy. I need
you
closer than ever and every moment
when my thoughts stray like neighborhood dogs
on the prowl. I need the kindness that meets me
in the middle of my dirge. I need the laughter that lasts
well beyond the afternoon.

The earth feels old today, long in the tooth and
bearded in gray. It was younger when I walked to
the corner bowling alley and played pinball most
of the afternoon. I thought summer was the
best playground and would never end.
The earth feels stale today, I hate to say it.
For I know it is full of verdant discoveries and
colors of autumn as the leaves depart for the winter.

While I clean out the cobweb thoughts, you remain,
just the same,
and bid me mirror your love at the speed of light.
Can I, quietly and quickly, silence the report of gunfire
and let the drops of rain coax life from this
groggy heart of mine?

The World Feels Diluted

The World Feels Diluted

The world feels diluted today, though I know it is
full, brimming, flooding, overrun, sculpted carefully by
sun and moon. I am breathing just fine, but I ache like
I’ve chased after an elusive friend always on the edges
of periphery.

The world feels static today, though I know it is
swift, breezing, rounding, tick-tocking, waving slowly like
rushes on the riverbank. I am walking just fine, but I
need to make myself clear. I need to find where I left
the only daredevil self I ever knew.

There are footprints on my soul that are eroding. Some
left by ghosts
who will never walk the sand with me again.
Some left by men I shared meals and questions with,
whose words are now decades old. We should meet on
the beaches again, or the racquetball court, or a rec room
full of couples who decided laughing was better than lectures.

The world feels muddy today, though I know it is
fresh, bursting, greening, never done, molded like pottery
in a master’s hands. I lost my breath recently, my legs feeling
every reason to cut the journey short. But where would I
go if I stopped wandering? Where would I find you if I only
stayed
home?

I Was Glad I Stayed

 I Was Glad I Stayed

(“In the middle of the night someone yelled out, ‘He’s here! The bridegroom’s here! Go out and greet him!’” Matthew 25:6)

 

How foolish I was, my light began to dim. The hour grew near
for the wedding to begin, and I needed somewhere to charge up
again.

Should I leave to find more energy, or stay with the party to
greet the groom? Would he face me down, disappointed that my
batteries nearly died? Or would he smile that I stayed, that I
waited to see if he would be happy with me.

I admit, I was so anxious to arrive I did not think through all
the possibilities. Half the party thought ahead and brought extra
lights in case theirs faded like mine. I had hoped to borrow
an extra, but they looked at me like I was a fool, an idiot,
an infidel,
and told me to go to the store in town; after midnight; through
the alleys; to try to buy more shine. Some of my friends did and
I’m afraid the store was closed, or they paid double, or froze
in their tracks to be out so late in that part of town.

But the groom was already late (at least as we perceived it)
and I wanted to wait; I wanted to take my chances; I wanted to
see him in the first morning’s light.

Would he reject me if there was mud on my freshly shined shoes?
Would he turn away because my tie was askew?
Would he choose someone to take my place who had better sense,
who was more like the friends who splurged on batteries?

But as he walked into the room there was more light than
any of us needed. Regal, he swept us up in his robes.
Holy, he burned our hearts with love.
Humble, he slowly took our hands, gazed at us like peers,
cheered us like children.

And, though my light had failed, I was glad I stayed, bathed
at last in the cosmic romance of redemption.