Friday, April 1, 2016


(Pietà by Michelangelo - found here)
The other Marys radiated joy.
The disciples found the truth hard to believe.
There had to be breaking bread, eating fish,
before they, too, even Thomas, were lit with joyfulness.

Not much was said about me.
I said good-bye to the son I carried within me
for nine months, nursed, fed, taught to walk.
On Friday when they took him down from the cross,
I held the son I knew,
recognizing him in my arms,
and never saw him again,
not my body’s child.

How could I laugh, weep tears of joy?
Like the others, I failed to recognize him;
the Christ who rose was not Bethlehem’s babe.
And it was right. For this was meant to be.
Here in my head I would not have had it otherwise.
But empty arms still longed for familiar flesh.
My joy, a sword that pierced through my heart.

I understood, more, perhaps, than the others
when he said that he could not stay with us—
that it was better if he went away,
was one again with God, his Father.
And when the Spirit came
I once again could love my son
and know my Lord.

If Easter came later for me than for the others,
its brilliance was as poignant and bright.

~Madeleine L'Engle

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