Easter Rising
Sometimes it seems safer
hiding in some old tomb,
hibernating deep inside…
when I’m out of hope
and weighed-down by fear
Myopic
to what’s missing in the dark.
Sometimes it seems wiser
marching to another’s tune,
following their timing…
when I’m out of rhythm
and mesmerised by doubt
Deaf
to my own beating heart.
Sometimes it seems easier
half-breathing stale air
half-seeing in dim light…
when I’m out of energy
and paralysed by confusion
Comatose
to my own dying.
But sometimes, miracle-times, lifetimes
Blind see, Deaf hear, Dead dance…
Sometimes life breaks free!
tombs give birth,
and stones roll away…
when I’m out of excuses
and dare to believe
Witness
to my own Easter rising.
Humility … (‘My God, my God!’)
My God, my God!
I know they mean well…
at least, I think they do?
pastors humbling themselves,
‘servants’
once-a-year,
washing my feet.
I try to excuse them
for I don’t think they understand…
that this ritual
is performed on me
daily
whether I like it or not.
And I don’t.
Rueful reminder
of my unbending-body
and feeble-frame,
of my need for help
to accomplish
even such simple tasks…
My God, my God!
Perhaps, if it was just my feet…
but I am humbled
from head to toe!
excruciatingly exposed
to strangers
oblivious
to my agony.
Such an intimate invasion!
— being washed by an-‘other’…
last bastion
of my privacy
and independence
gurgling
down the plug-hole…
But, serendipitously,
my sight shifts
from the pastor’s towel
to a naked man:
humiliated
bruised-body-broken
hanging on the chapel wall…
‘My God, my God!’
my eyes join his crying,
my heart his sighing,
my body his dying,
my spirit his praying:
‘Father forgive them,
they don’t know what they do.’
Carolyn More is Chaplain, Georges River Area, South Eastern Region, UnitingCare Ageing
