+The Mourning After+

I will be naked soon for the rending of my garments, hairless too. The women assure me grief softens with time. Not mine. The pain in my mother’s heart is as Job’s pottery shards. Never will the knife-edged fragments cease to cut me, from the inside out.

            The women grip my wrists, to keep my nails from my face.

            “You will be ugly.”

            What do I care? I have no need, no desire for beauty, for a husband. I have John now. My Jesus presented him to me and me to him, a parting gift. Dear John, the only one who did not flee—trembling, bleating, denying.

~~~~~~~

I sensed the greatness of my son from the very beginning, from the moment when I heard his first moist breath and mewling cry. A seemingly ordinary infant until you drew closer and felt the urge to be with, to listen to, to learn from. What? What is it a babe can know? Any other? Nothing. This one? Everything and more.

            Joseph had stood behind me in that place, in that moment.

            “It is . . . He is . . . as the angels said.”  

            I felt my thoughts and Joseph’s merge, run together like a river. My words came out into the night air with the silver mist of my breath.

            “This babe will change everything, everyone.”

            My consciousness withdrew from my husband’s as I felt a contraction, a wringing, in my womb. I had a vision of a grape press—ancient and of stone—pressing, crushing, seeming to destroy my son. I attempted to stand, failed. Bent at the waist, I forced my fists against my gut. A growl of a moan worked its way up and out of me. I shook my head, felt the over and over whip of wet hair in my eyes. My tears drenched the dung at my feet.

~~~

Every day as he grew into his destiny this was my prayer:

            “Not today, LORD, nor tomorrow. Let there be one more day, Master. He’s my precious boy child. Allow him another day to teach, to heal, to love. He has all of eternity to be with you. Please, afford me a few more . . .”

~~~~~~~

The women hover, their hands and fingers like insects close to my face. I swat and moan.

            “Leave. Me. Be.”

            I gaze toward the Temple Mount. “Take me, Abba, sooner than later. Today, please? I want to see him, touch him, kneel before him, one more time.”

            I consider the rope on the bucket in the well.

~~~~~~~

Elizabeth is on her way. She sent word. It will be a comfort to spend hours, no, days, mourning our sons. For a season they were the bright stars of this world. A season so brief before they were snatched by evil men for the sake of pride, power, pleasure even.

            We can starve together, Elizabeth and me, call it fasting. We have no appetites; they perished with our sons. Moses himself could bring manna and we would bow our heads, purse our lips, turn away.

            I will let Elizabeth hold me. Rather, I will cradle her fragile, diminished frame. Free her hair, comb its grayness with my fingers, murmur into the mass of it.

            “You pretend I am John. I will make believe you are my Jesus.”

            We have no need of husbands. It is no longer necessary to pretend we love them more than the fruit of our loins.

~~~~~~~

My Jesus never resembled me, did not have my eyes, the cleft in my chin. Even so, he belonged to me. I carried him in my inmost parts. His purity came through mine. No woman has ever, will ever again, do what I have done. My life will be the death of me.

            “He will save his people from their sins.” The angel told Joseph that.

            The most glorious purpose the world has ever known and yet, I hate it. My LORD knows and loves me still. My confession is the world’s victory. How can there still be fools? Have you not seen? Have you not heard?

            No, he was not beautiful other than to me. Most did not appreciate his not-of-this-world-ness. Only if you sat at his feet or knelt before him could you glimpse heaven’s light and then, only if your heart was at the perfect angle of understanding. The shalom of Yahweh—a greeting, a covenant, an overwhelming peace—would engulf you for all time when you were surrounded by the light that was Jesus. That, I will hold fast to that—light, shalom, Yeshua HaMashiach.

No Longer Certain

It confounds me how your love can exist so comfortably beside your secret. A radiant warmth snuggled next to an abysmal darkness. A pool of green water. Still. Absolutely unaffected by earthquakes all around.

            Eyes wide, I peer into your shine. Try to gulp it in. I’m almost blinded. A moment later, off to the right, the shadow of your mystery arrives to abduct your brilliance.

            I think I can live right here. In this space—between my karate chop hands held a foot apart--if I pretend the lack of light is a lie. A miscommunication. Soon after though, I become sure of your misdeeds. They nip at my ankles. Draw my feet (and heart) down like quicksand.

I could not for the life of me stop thinking of Adam and Eve. Eve mostly, though I wondered why Adam didn’t rise up. Be the man. Do the right thing. Stop. Eve.

            I felt, for the second time in my life, a bit like God. Foolish, I know. But similar still.

            We were perfect, weren’t we? But really, we weren’t. The lie, the what if, had already slipped in. Tainted paradise. Infected glory.

Now I understand how the worst thing that can happen is doubt. Mine. Yours. And now I live as though someone stepped on my eyes. That shape on the horizon, is it beauty, or evil? And the form to the left of it. Tell me. Is it kindness or deception?

            I think that’s what I miss most. The certainty that what I know is what I know.

            And yet I love you still.

Afraid of the Dark

I'm so glad it's sunny today.  I like light.  I mean, I really like light.  Sometimes I go through the house and flip every switch and turn on every lamp. Then I run around and light bunches of candles.  Little campfires to ward off the absence of illumination.

See, I'm afraid of the dark.  Have been as long as I can remember.  I'm scared because--  Well, God, you of all people know why, right?  That omniscient property you have?  Oh, and eternality, that too, you know what they mean, don't you?  You were there.

That fact used to burn me up.  If you were there, in my baby's breath pink room, with lime green shag carpet, and French provincial furniture, why the heck didn't you show up?  Be big.  Call down fire or locusts.  Do some signs, miracles, or wonders.  On my behalf.

As I got to know you though, I backed off the shoulda, coulda, wouldas.  It is what it is.  No amount of tears, wailing, or teeth gnashin' is gonna change the past.  And besides, you had your own bullies--tons.  I only had one. 


In therapy, I tried so hard  not to compare my pain, my experience, with other folks.'  Trust me.  That's a bad place to go.  "What happened to you?"  Counseling clients shouldn't be able to ask that.  It's like houses, cars, wedding rings.  You know how big yours is, what it's worth.  So then you try to figure out if theirs is larger, worse, sicker than yours.

I remember this one time.  I was in a group with a whole bunch of other damaged people.  I didn't say anything, but man, they did.  Jacked their jaws 'til I wanted to smack the big, long conference table and scream--SHUT UP!!

This one lady, she saw a car wreck.  Ooooh!  Scary!!!  She wasn't in the totalled car or anything.  Just watched the accident from the berm.  Said she had PTSD as a result.  Liar.  She just wanted attention.  Was willing to pay $95.00 an hour to get it.  She shoulda taken her money up to WalMart and bought herself a life.

This one gal sat across from me.  Probably 20, maybe 22.  For the longest time she didn't say anything.  Not a peep.  Boy howdy, she was  big.  I saw her lips move.  I cocked my head.

"Excuse me?"

Her voice was wee.  "If I get huge, maybe they won't want me no more."

I leaned toward her.  "Who, sweetie?"

Her gnawed nails traced the woodgrain of the table.

"The bad men.  They tie me up.  Stuff a rag in my mouth.  Drive me to that cabin way out in the woods.  Ever since I was four."

I'm glad she didn't look me in the eye.  No one wants to see pity and horror in someone else's gaze.  My fingers clawed into fists. 

"Who are they?  Where are they?  I'll kill 'em for you. Cut off their--"

Her eyes weren't pretty.  Not even when they got big and shiny with tears.  That just made 'em look muddy.  She folded her head, like she wanted to bury it between her prodigious breasts.  She leaned forward, then back again.  Did that.  Over and over.  Hummed something.  I think it was Ring Around the Rosy.  Wasn't that song about the Black Death?


Jesus, I'm sure glad you're light.  You know how the preacher man always says, "Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life?"  I always thought he said, "The way, the truth, and the light."  I wanted you to be light.  Needed you to be.  And now you are.  To  me.

One time I was at a ladies' luncheon, and a speaker gal told her story.  Dang!  She had a tough rough to hoe.  At the end of her talk though, she said,  in her sweet, quiet, tiny like a wren voice, "As I look back over my life, bad as it was, I wouldn't change a thing."  I almost stood up and said, "Lady, someone needs to knock you up side the head.  You are a fool."

But now? I think I kinda get what she was saying.  It's like the end of the Joseph and the Rainbow Coat story in the Bible.  Joseph told his brothers, the ones who sold him into slavery 'cause he was a goody-two-shoes, "You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good, to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives."

I hope I can do that someday.  Save many lives.  From gloom, despair, and agony on them.  I just have to find the afraid-of-the-dark people.  Hand 'em a candle and say, "Guess what, friend?  Jesus is the way, the truth, and the light."