"The Writings of Mongsee"
by Marcia Wickes

Jesus At My Door

Last night, I dreamed of Jesus at my door, 
Knocking, knocking, 
Just like that old painting that hung
In my Sunday school classes so long ago;
I opened the door, and the cool night air
Made me shiver......his feet were bare, and he
Was wrapped in his robe.  His eyes were sad, and so
I opened the door, I let him in.   He walked so slowly,
As if in pain, his eyes shadowed
In heartbreak and I 
Took him to my kitchen and sat him down......
Draped my warmest blanket over his bent shoulders.
I brought him tea
(Would Jesus like Earl Grey?  Or would he drink
Sleepytime and smile a bit at the little bears
On the box?)
And turned on the oven,
For that is what I do, you know, when people hurt.....
I bake them bread.......
And so
I turned the radio on, low
(Would Jesus like Patsy Cline?  Would he love
The sweet soft sounds of Enya, curling through
The warm darkness of my kitchen?)
And I warmed the oven, and silently
As I measured flour, and hunted for  yeast,
I watched him.  The lines on his face eased a bit,
And moving to him in his chair, I brushed my hand
Gently through his hair and smiled to see him
Lean to that simple touch; he closed his eyes,
And sipped his tea.......
And then he talked, a little, while I mixed and kneaded
And searched for my bread pans;
He talked and I listened,
Covering the dough and sitting to wait for it to rise.....

We both looked at each other, me in my rocker
And he at my table.........
He looked around my simple kitchen and he said,
Some things don't change.....women and bread, they
Have always gone together.....
And I whispered, I don't know what else to do, sometimes....
When it all goes mad, you know........I make bread.   It is
All I can do......and
He smiled in the darkness;
Oh, his eyes, the strength in those endless liquid eyes.....
He smiled and said, sometimes my dear,
Sometimes that is enough...........
And I rose and went to him and I  touched the
Scars on his hands and murmured,
I'm sorry they hurt you I'm so sorry sweet one,
I'm sorry they did that.........
He gripped me with his gaze, then, and said,
I can forgive, for I know
They didn't understand.
Yes they did, they always know
I replied bitterly, and he took my hand and pulled me close.
He let me cry a bit and then he said
No they don't......no, dear one, they don't........
And I wept on his shoulder, then sighed and turned
To put the bread into the oven........
And the soft music and silence reigned supreme in the peaceful
Shadows of my nightshadowed kitchen.
As the scent of baking bread filled the room, I spoke again....
How do you forgive, 
I asked. How do you
Let it go...... let it slip away..... cut the shackles of the pain.....
He looked at the scars on his sinewy hands, and I saw
His feet flinch at the remembered pain, and he said.....
Just make bread, when it hurts...... make bread,
And open your door to all who need warmth and food and
Hot tea and comfort..... .open your door, and
Open your heart, as you did to me..........
Just make bread, and make love, and it will pass......
And we ate the bread, and then  he faded away, the old blanket
Sinking to the floor......
And I sat in my rocker, alone with my tears of
The hated past and I said,
Over and over
Like a mantra against the hurting.....
I will make bread, and I will love......
I will make bread, and I will love.......
I will make bread, and I will love.......

©~Marcia Wickes      

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