Monday, a connection to a former love from a former life. Funny thing that—remembering, looking back. I have come SO far since those days. Oh, the early 20s—knowing too much and nothing—cocky and headstrong, hiding behind sharp ultimatums that never actualize.
Tuesday: a burst of energy. Wednesday: why don’t Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday in Holy Week get fancy names and titles? I digress.
Thursday brings a dirty heart along with its dirty feet. Wish I could find a heart washing joint, mines full of a lifes worth of muck and ache. Facebook offers images and stories of foot washing; am I the only one with this stinky bloody thing? I just keep on, keepin’ on, smiling at the sweeties, scanning the room, go one more time ’round the restaurant floor, picking up the half sucked goldfish crackers. I can smell the dirty feet down there, but who can smell my dirty heart?
Friday is called Good. Blood, sweat and tears good. Jesus is dead and truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit good. And so it is. You see, Monday gives way to Friday; a history lesson of which time and witness are the necessary tools for examination.
Time because what used to be a week of waiting by the corded clunky yellow ding-a-ling-a-ling ring, has now reduced itself to 20 minutes and a healthy dose of who does this ass think I am that he can waste MY time? And witness—I’ve got one and her name is Goose, wind, ruach elohim, breath. (She also goes by Colleen, Amy, Gareth and Karen.) Oh my beloved Karen, who sees me for who I was and who I am, and knows that both are ok—actually they are whole, holy and broken.
Today they tell me God is dead. Its Saturday and while Jesus descended to the dead, so too shall I. Monday, Nick, you-know-who (who-shall-not-be-named), failing grades, angels, demons, dreams yet not fulfilled, heights and depths you are on notice. YOU will not have the last word.
Tomorrow is Easter.