Women in The Garden...Maundy Thursday

I am a woman,
a woman
standing in the garden
with the Boys, over there.

I am neither planting, pruning
or scything
but I am praying,
waking and uttering
scrapings of words.

Words
murmured words
words of pleading,
that's what we hear
uttered to the Invincible One.

He, who has this Son,
HIm, over there kneeling
by that rock where
the Boys are nearby.

The women with me,
we are set apart a ways
but we can hear
His murmured words
of discourse intent,
and sometimes loud
barks, and then
quiet
for a while.

Those Boys,
they sleep and nod
stupidly when they
are supposed to be
around Him like a hedge
made of prayer and
mutual silence,
but most of all, love.

Yet no, they snore and snuffle
scratch and sniff in their
fevered dreams,
but He does not sleep,
can't because this
is no time for sleeping,
not for Him.

We girls, we watch and wait
with Him
in the night watches
in the open of the garden
where the indigo sky
encloses us roughly
against the grass and thistles.

We girls, we are made of
sturdier stuff
from the cooking, the
baking, the making,
of others all the day long,
working and doing,
and often as we do we
pray and are filled like
new skins of wine, of
pressed oil, of soft
bread.

Our wakefulness
is here to stay,
unlike those Boys,
them, over there.

If only they knew
how they will lose
sight of Him as they
lose sight of the stars
in their courses above
as the candle burns
the hours away.

And He will flame out
as all falling stars do
but only for while...we
can see it coming

In the silence we gather
our hands together,
we girls and keep our
eyes upon Him and
with Him we are,
inside our hearts will
we will grieve for
grief yet to come.

He knows, this Jesus,
that's why the soft words
melt into hard barks of
twisting hands and
pursed lips of a struggling
Man, Man Divine.

A little wind comes up now
gentle but steady and It
seems to have a purpose
known only to Itself
as it moves over Him
kneeling at that rock,
hands wringing and grasping
as his locks move on this
wind and softly buffet his
face, fluttering the wings
of a night moth alight upon
His shoulder, which is heaving.

We gather our hair veils about
our heads a little tighter,
a little closer around our hearts
so they stay and will not
engender stern looks from
the Boys should they waken
which is doubtful.

The dawn will come
and with it, soldiers
and uppity old men,
and servants, scowling.

There is not much else
we girls can do but stand
and watch our Lord be
taken away.

Our hearts will ache
but we are only women
in their sight, yet we
are so much more...

We have laid hold of His
Word, of His promises
of kingdom come,
how it will be done on
earth as in heaven.

Jesus, remember us
when You come into
Your kingdom,
the anointing of Your
feet with oil, how our
glory faded before Yours
in the foreshadowing.

May we receive what was
once whole, and now
broken, our Lord,
for we shall see You,
after Abba Father,
after all the company
of heaven, in another
garden on a morning
not unlike the one coming
but brighter.

And before the Boys do...

But it comes before that,
the hard time
when we will weep
and anoint the shell of
this Man
carrying the seed of love
for the blooming of
the world, and first we
will touch the sheaf of
finest wheat, the risen
Body and drink of Your
Voice, living water.

It is time now, Master,
Loving Lord.
We girls,
we are with You
in Your darkest hours.

Catherine

All rights reserved.