"That got me thinking…"

Part 1

I find myself alone, a coincidence of 
one child old enough to fly a thousand miles
on her own, and another still willing to go on a 
Daddy walk in all the old places. 

So I sit, coffee and pastel M&M’s in hand, 
feeling the emotions of the last two days roll 
through, a tidal wave, pulsing and crashing
til I am no more than bits of sand

and things that used to be. 
Crushed and splintered 
I hurt, for have I ever encountered
Him in the story this way?

First there was the foot washing
and I was fine - just fine, really
until the girl, about three years old, wandered 
up front to the embarrassment of her dad.

Our priest greeted her with a smile,
took off her little shoes, washed
her little feet. The church held its 
collective breath in holy witness:

As one with the power to run the show
paused, to give dignity to one of the least. 
Something within me 
has dislodged just a bit. 

Part 2

Then came my morning at home:
math lessons, walk the dog, and
make sure everyone knows what to do.
Chronic, monotonous duties

the preparations for her trip
a drive to the airport, pizza 
and hugs goodbye,
prayer in traffic for safe travels.

But soon I found myself in that space again,
Jesus and other pilgrims, 
the story washing over us
with familiar words:

“Could you not stay awake one hour?” and
“Judas came with a kiss” “I will never leave you!”
“Pilate had him flogged” “Answer me!”
And most damning of all: “Crucify him!”

Then the invitation, come, before 
the wooden cross, and touch it, 
Kneel, bow or kiss.
There is no rush,

Each person is given the
space and time; some 
openly weep, most take their
full moment, and I am undone. 

Is it any wonder I sit, 
coffee and prayers growing cold 
on this morning of waiting, 
A shredding of it all? 

Part 3

I find myself wiping the kitchen counters
furiously sweeping the corners
full of dust bunnies and
shaking dog hair off the comforter.

I cannot escape my own 
thoughts. Sitting still is too hard,
spring cleaning doesn’t scrub them away.
What is there left for me to do?

Nothing. It has all been done.
It is finished. 
But I am not finished!

Part 4

In a moment part gace and part desperation, 
I cease my frantic work, exercising trust muscles 
weak, but enough. Hoping, 
praying for the morning to come, 

That I and all who trust that 
Death Does Not Have The Last Word,
will rise to see all the sand and broken bits 
everything that has been shredded
begun to be - carefully, 
purposefully - 
remade. 

This poem was written on Holy Saturday 2022 as I reflected on my experiences at our church, Trinity North Shore over the last two days. Thanks to the folks at church who came together for such meaningful worship experiences, and thanks to Ian at Drum Drum Photo for the beautiful pictures of both events. The beach photo is mine and I hope encourages you to look for the morning!