We are in Easter season, a time to rejoice over a Mystery most cannot comprehend, fully grasp and hold. Death, grief, murder, doubt, fear, and despair we get. We know these realities all too intimately—personally and globally. We expect them. But when confronted with no body, with Resurrection, well, it’s unexpected, not easy to believe at all, except to say that by faith we love, trust, and adore a God who brings life out of death, even ultimate biological death.
This poem is about an experience of abuse I had when I was eight years old at the hands of a stranger who happened to look just like the traditional bearded image of God. For a time this experience dimmed, but did not obliterate, the strong connection I’d experienced with God from early childhood. Writing puts it out onto the page where it has less power over me.
Missing the Rockettes
The theater darkened
slowly.
Chatter and patter died
down.
A thin line of light
blinked
winked
From beneath the thick maroon velvet curtain
hidden wonders glowed.
A small girl edged forward
eager
ready, ready.
Now music from the orchestra pit
arose.
Now the curtain lifted slowly
slowly
Exposed two stories
the one
flashing, daring, dashing dance
the other
untold, unclean, unseen, unbidden
As the old man’s withered hand
crept lightly up the child’s thigh
it stole the show.
Healing, for me, was a process of resurrection. Like Thomas, it took me a while before I could touch my wound or trust my God.
