Amanda of Texas: Easter Monday

For forty days You wove in and out
Of the fabric of time and space
The needle restitching the world

What fun You must have had, what
Joy You must have taken in surprising
Your people with the fact of Your life

And You keep doing it again and again
You show up out of nowhere when
I least expect, and I am continually

Astonished by the fact of You

Martha of Bethany: Good Friday

It’s not Sabbath yet
(although the sun is swiftly setting today)
so I am making the bread
and sweeping the floor
and washing the windows
and trying to get dinner together
even though I am not hungry today
none of us are hungry today

I am doing the thing he told me
not to do: but today I want
to do everything I can
to ignore the news that came down
the road from the city
because otherwise everything will unravel
like the tears in our garments

So I keep brushing past the blood
on the doorposts
I keep not looking up at the darkening sky
because as long as I keep moving I can still believe

Mary of Bethany: Maundy Thursday

All the women came back to our house,

So it’s just us. And our brother, laying low after

A month of miracles, and a few hangers-on:

All of us healed in some way, recipients of

Some gift. And we are chopping up the herbs,

Baking the bread. The men came back from the

Temple with the lamb and poured its blood on our house,

And now we eat.

But the twelve? And the Lord? In Jerusalem, and all I want–

Though I am grateful for this company, this family stitched together

Around my tired heart to keep it warm–all I want

Is to run into town and fall at His feet again, still scented

With last week’s perfume, and listen.

I fear that tonight, after a month of miracles,

The miracles may end for good.

Mary of Magdala: Palm Sunday

Tonight in Bethany my ears still ring
With loud shouts and the rustle of the palms;
Old men, young women, little kids would sing
Their loud hosannas like a victory psalm
To welcome in their conquering King and Lord,
The Victor over pagan rule–and then
You turned on them–You flipped the merchant’s boards
And moneychangers’ tables, and then when
The dust had settled, You cried out: “This place
Should be for prayer, you robbers!” Oh my Lord,
You set Yourself outside the priests’ good grace
Far more than prudence, wisdom would afford.
My Master, I gave up my life to go
With You–but will it bring us grief and woe?

“and all my idols rusted over…”

1. Hi, gang. It’s been too long. I’m gonna try to do this more often. (How often have I said that? Oh well, we’ll try it again.)

2. I think it may be because of my weird melancholy bent, but Advent and Lent are two of my favorite church year seasons (Holy Week and Eastertide are my actual favorites, for what I hope are obvious reasons). There is something about confessing that we are weak, and that we are sinful, and that we need God’s mercy, that is also surprisingly freeing and joyful. I’m praying that God does necessary things in my heart, and in others’ hearts, this year.

3. This is kind of a weird feeling for me, but lately I have just not wanted to read. Maybe my brain is tired of downloading information, or I have too many options, or something. I don’t know. But my read count is surprisingly low so far this year. It may also be that I’ve been attempting to juggle four or five books, and they’re all really long. (Speaking of, current reads: The Jesus Way by Eugene Peterson, The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss, Letters to Malcolm: Chiefly On Prayer by C.S. Lewis, and Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder, because I’m having a weird nostalgic streak. I started Death Comes For the Archbishop by Willa Cather, but had to put it on hold because of all this other stuff.)

4. The post title comes from a song I’ve been humming a lot this Lent, “I’m Coming Back” from Sojourn Music: “But my gold has turned to dust, and all my idols rusted over/I’ve gained the whole world and lost my soul.” Sojourn’s the music department for a church in Louisville and they consistently turn out good stuff, so I highly recommend them.