By Ella Childs
Though the day is for resting, I find I cannot sit
still with the grief. And he has left us
with this suffocating stillness, the absence
of him, the tomb now shut, sealed tight with a stone.
And the stone is also my heart,
heavy, hard, and dumb.
Dust settles on the shelves and in the corners,
unbearable, inconsequential, awkward,
our highest hopes fallen without fanfare
into our unswept corners again.
All the jars are empty now,
and the oil has run out,
and I’ve dropped a dish, or cast it down in anger, I don’t know which.
It’s shattered all across the floor I’ve just been scrubbing.
I begin to collect the pieces,
and to me they are each word he spoke in promise.
They are the kingdom of God he said was at hand.
But where is it now? Buried with him,
beaten, pierced, asphyxiated.
On my knees, sweeping shards, I think it would be easier
to clean this all away and start again
as if it never happened.
Yet in the corner
there is this stubborn mystery which,
from any angle,
I can’t sweep out with the broom.
—
As I reflected on Holy Week, I was drawn to the period of time in which it seemed all was lost. I imagined one woman who followed Jesus going home after burying him, and how she grappled with all that had happened. In this poem, she cannot recognize the mystery in the corner of her house—which is Jesus’ latent power as he lies dead— for what it is. But the confusing grace he gives is persistent, almost annoying, and it will reveal itself as what it is in the resurrection.
As we enter into the beauty and hope of the Passion and resurrection, I wanted to make space for the feeling that all that we are waiting for has not yet been made manifest. But, in ways which might go unrecognized, God’s grace is still constantly being given, and we will know it when we see it face to face.
Ella Childs has been attending Rez since Holy Week of 2022. As well as writing poems, Ella loves to paint, read, knit, make food, and be active outside.
Painting by Lindsey Bergsma
