Once upon a time the Treasure of the world entire told a story about treasure in a field, treasure within treasure, a kingdom in a kingdom in a seemingly arbitrary object, a field of the whole world
I remember when these angry men were children, lovable children, and now they behave as though they still don’t know
You are the treasure
The King and his Kingdom is the treasure.
And if that were not enough, what will a man do if he (gains the whole world)
And loses his own soul?
The sun inhales deep, swims down, down to us through a drowned world of trees, still our guardian angels, bright fish dart among them, impersonating song birds, the children are not safe here anymore
As ordinary men huddle and cast lots
for the seamless robe of
God
We ask liturgical questions, why must the dead pretend they are anything else, here in the depths of the world where we have waited so long? We resemble our former selves, only shadows now, constructing chalk outlines of the world which has gone on without us
When he breaks through we watch in awe, chalk outlined arms raised, like children who must be helped into
The clothing of this beautiful
Hereafter
Mangling the vulgate so close to the end of our story, dive, I tell him. Dive into the deep
Blue water, temporary darkness
The way a man may rise
From his own grave, from his shroud
If the voice of the Divine
Calls him back
He has found a little stream, dips his feet into the water away from all the others. When I ask him about all he has lost, he shrugs as if to say
Lost wife
Lost country
Lost king
Lost friends
But he has new friends now, even among the children and grandchildren and great grandchildren of his erstwhile wife.
He recites these my-life-for-yours words as if the man who wrote them had written them for him…
….He that is first in his own cause seemeth just; but his neighbour cometh and searcheth him. [18] The lot causeth contentions to cease, and parteth between the mighty. [19] A brother offended is harder to be won than a strong city: and their contentions are like the bars of a castle. [20] A man’s belly shall be satisfied with the fruit of his mouth; and with the increase of his lips shall he be filled. [21] Death and life are in the power of the tongue: and they that love it shall eat the fruit thereof. [22] Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing , and obtaineth favour of the Lord . [23] The poor useth intreaties; but the rich answereth roughly. 24] A man that hath friends must shew himself friendly:
…there is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother.
Let us wait here, darling
Until he comes.
Strange how we can take words and reduce them to
shadows of their former selves
Willfully diminishing
What casts a shadow
and the utter strength of light
Days before the Passover lamb, John the Baptist mends her long robe, pours oil over wounds with words which make sense only to the dead, faith the fire we warm our hands by,
Let me in, let me in says the moon and the wind, let me in to the stillness of everlasting, as even now the children begin to
Lay down their outer garments, their palm branches, as we all sing, hosanna, blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.
We are close now, so close .
Methuselah lived 969 years, which means that at just over 100, my grandfather was a spring chicken, as lifespans go. That notwithstanding he got a lot done. Married, participated in at least three wars, fathered children, buried some. Lost a wife, found another, called me his oldest unmarried granddaughter for as long as it applied.
I loved him in all his iterations, in all his familiar imperfections, but I know Someone who loves him more.
The One who is the Road
The All and Only
Road Home.
Psalm 116
It helps me sometimes, to picture all of us in our sheep costumes, thin elastic chin straps, holding on our faces.
Helps me to remember
We are all sheep
If you don’t count the wolves among us
And all we, like sheep have gone astray
So you will not be the one to forgive my helpless anger
At all the lambs lost to slaughter
While the Shepherd was away.
We are collectively surprised at how ephemeral the boat is, balloonish, easily punctured. As are we. I wonder if the others have drawn the same conclusions-we have become ghosts in our erstwhile stories, still haunted by the house, by the spouse, by the hope we left behind.
Only Lazarus whistles a chipper tune. Why is he so happy? Because nothing is a cool hand to lose.
Carrying Light 