Friday, May 27, 2011
Now when Jesus returned, the crowd welcomed him, for they were all waiting for him. Just then there came a man named Jairus, a leader of the synagogue. He fell at Jesus’ feet and begged him to come to his house, for he had an only daughter, about twelve years old, who was dying.
As he went, the crowds pressed in on him. Now there was a woman who had been suffering from haemorrhages for twelve years; and though she had spent all she had on physicians, no one could cure her. She came up behind him and touched the fringe of his clothes, and immediately her haemorrhage stopped. Then Jesus asked, ‘Who touched me?’ When all denied it, Peter said, ‘Master, the crowds surround you and press in on you.’ But Jesus said, ‘Someone touched me; for I noticed that power had gone out from me.’ When the woman saw that she could not remain hidden, she came trembling; and falling down before him, she declared in the presence of all the people why she had touched him, and how she had been immediately healed. He said to her, ‘Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace.’
While he was still speaking, someone came from the leader’s house to say, ‘Your daughter is dead; do not trouble the teacher any longer.’ When Jesus heard this, he replied, ‘Do not fear. Only believe, and she will be saved.’ When he came to the house, he did not allow anyone to enter with him, except Peter, John, and James, and the child’s father and mother. They were all weeping and wailing for her; but he said, ‘Do not weep; for she is not dead but sleeping.’ And they laughed at him, knowing that she was dead. But he took her by the hand and called out, ‘Child, get up!’ Her spirit returned, and she got up at once. Then he directed them to give her something to eat. Her parents were astounded; but he ordered them to tell no one what had happened. Luke 8:40-56
My mother's warn hands tell a thousand stories
laundry loads uncountable, tearful eyes wiped
a million sandwiches and decades of groceries
piles of homework and hairbrushes forgotten
her prayers like water over falls a constant
murmuring for her children her grandchildren
and the great grand little ones.
My daughters hands speed over keyboards
thumbs flying, texting song and jokes in
little bits, speaking volumes in thousands
of increments of information.
We all have our hurts these mothers,
these daughters, the children the parents
wrangled in grief and joy wrapped up
in a thousand holidays and meals
the repeated stories of struggle, survival
heroes in their universes
beauties of faith and forgiveness.
We fight for survival and dance for joy
we weep for what cannot be and what is lost pressing
on with life, with laundry and food
finding music and laughter in kitchens
and cars, full and lonely we ache for love
for a touch, a kind word, a hand stepping up.
Their touch and their words transform me,
their laughter scares away bitterness
their eyes lit with love and hopefulness drown
out the deep darkness of fear.
My mothers, my aunties, my daughters and grand babies
Gods love dwells as we reach our hands in love
as we bake and bend for the sake of others our service
God finds and invitation to be in the midst of us
and our healing is found.