In Response to a Poem by Rumi
Jerusalem, O Jerusalem…
Reminded of the first time I heard the bells of Holy Sepulchre chime during Holy Prayers to Allah.
I fell to my knees, metaphorically that is.
My hands were flat against the Wall surrounded by ancient Jewish women.
All of us fragile and wrinkled in some way, sheltered under our shawls, begging for Grace, knowing it was there. That’s why we’d come.
We had braved the young soldiers with the giant machine guns. Bared our souls and pocketbooks and bodies before the TSA-like scrutiny.
And on those ancient stones, I noticed the unending hum of humanity mingling with the gargantuan sounds of at least two worldwide traditions.
And the feeling of My Note rising from deep within:
To encourage this diversity.
And do whatever I could in my giant minuteness: To Be Loved and To Love.
And now here at home…
All fragile, in pain
Some hospitalized
Judy,
Chris,
Melissa
The healing I beg for, doubting it’s on this plane.
And yet
Hearing the stories read on the very same day, Ezekiel’s dry bones and Jesus raising Lazarus from the stench of death, no less.
Then seeing Juan,
Alan,
Pat
parade in, one after another. Who am I to doubt?
Knowing they had each been bodily to this plane’s edge.
Do they know they came back to encourage me?
Their’s is the Grace of healing I seek.
Always Bridging 