Ravaged by grief,
she saw you standing right there,
but did not recognize you.
She was living in Friday,
That traumatic Friday.
But it’s Sunday now,
And there you stand,
In front of Mary.
It’s a new day,
The only day that really counts.
Today.
* * *
Lord Jesus,
I give you the Fridays of my past.
My Fridays of trauma and grief
The Fridays I was betrayed,
The Fridays I failed.
It’s Sunday now,
And there you stand in front of me,
Oh Lovely One!
And you make all things new.
* * *
Cleopas walks downcast,
His hopes have crumbled.
He has seen betrayal, and he has learned
Religious leaders can be evil.
He walks, sad, foolish
And slow of heart,
Thinking of crumbled hopes
And his beloved
Humiliated teacher
Who walks beside him,
Always walks beside him.
* * *
Forgive me, Lord,
For the times I walked in darkness,
Shrouded in self-pity,
Unable to get over past betrayal,
Past evil, past disappointment;
My vision darkened as I considered
Other people’s evil
Instead of clearing the logs from my eyes.
Living in Friday.
Not noticing you
Walking beside me,
Always walking beside me,
Even in my valley of suffering
Offering this heart,
Still puckered with yesterday’s vinegar,
Fresh bread.
It is Sunday, today,
And you feed me
With the breaking of the bread,
And beauty and creativity,
And you say, “Be not afraid of broken things.
Even the Christ had to suffer.
Be not afraid.”
“When you walk through the waters, I’ll be with you
And the floods shall not overwhelm you,
When you walk through fire, you shall not be burned,
And the flame shall not consume you.”
* * *
Thomas says:
“Oh, the failure was dreadful,
Humiliating.
How could it be the Lord?
I saw hasty nails pierce
Those exquisite hands.
The impatient spear
driven into his side.
He failed
despite his prayer,
our prayer,
all the love, the preparation,
the hopes,
He failed.
They killed him.
But if prayer worked,
as he said it would,
If faith could move mountains,
as he said it would,
if his Father loved him,
As he said he did,
If he was God,
As he said he was
Would there have been that disgrace,
The mocking crown of thorns,
The mocking scarlet robe,
The stripping, the crucifixion?
* * *
“Thomas,” they say.
“He’s alive now.”
Faith!
I have no faith left.
I am bereft of faith.
Unless I see the nail marks in his hands
and put my finger where the nails were,
and put my hand into his side,
I will not believe, I say.
* * *
And then, I see him,
And words fail me
And I kneel,
And all I can say is
My Lord and My God.
* * *
Oh stupid Thomas!
Forgive me, Lord for my stupidity.
For believing you come
Only in day, and not in night,
Only in summer and not in winter
Only in success and not in failure.
Only in glory, never in shame.
My Lord and My God
Forgive me for needing
to see your radiant, risen body
To realize that there was beauty too
In the three hours on the cross
When you were the voluntary scapegoat
For a selfish world.
I believe.
Help my unbelief.
Help me to accept from your hands
Whatever you give me
With praise, and thanksgiving.
The lacerated hands,
The mauled side,
They too are part of the beautiful body of Christ
Things you make beautiful in your time.
May I never forget this,
lovely Lord Jesus.