Posted in The Sunday Driver: Life in the Slow Lane

He is Risen (I think)

This is not the Easter I expected.
But then is it ever?
God says, Surprise!
I ask, Why?
instead of
Thank You.

I drive past the ringing bells of the Basilica calling the faithful to Mass and then suddenly I am turning into the quiet zone of the hospital,
called by another more subdued,
less joyful summons.

Sitting here with him,
I wonder who I was last evening,
the shouting one,
racing home towards the bright full moon,
angry at You for
pulling me back,
for daring to turn my world
upside down…

But that’s what You are good at,
O God of the Unexpected.

Forgive me for this big ol stone I keep in front of my
grave-stricken heart.

Like Rob Cassels sang so loudly in that church long ago,
Resurrection power, I need You every hour.

(More like every minute, every second, of every day).

It is available I think.
Perhaps all You are waiting for is an acknowledgement of its necessity;
my woeful inadequacy.

Sitting here by the bed
quietly writing,
amidst the beeps,
snatches of nurse conversations,
the sound of air
blowing through the ac,
I feel my heart
opening again
like the white hot
lilies on so many
altars today
as he
turns toward
the glowing window
and gently
drifts off to

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