These bodies
Half-elegy, half-lament
These bodies.
[look close]
Wrinkled elbows. Ashy knees. Taut skin. Pudgy toes. Scalloped nails. Calloused heels. A spray of freckles. A splay of lashes. A shiny scar. A curl at the nape. A crease in the palm. The kaleidoscope of irises. The sloping curve of shoulders. The spiraling whorl of fingerprints. The rose petal of cheeks. The teardrops of earlobes.
Beauty and burden.
These bodies.
[where we came from]
We begin bounded within another body. Each of us starts surrounded by skin, flesh and blood. We are not independent or isolated, but held from the beginning. Bigger than wombs or waters, too—the holy holding of the One in whom we live and move and have our being. Within is how humans begin.
Birth depends on the sacrifice of another, too: the strength to be sliced open or torn apart, to surrender to pain’s passage knowing it is never an ultimate end. Bright lights and loud voices welcome us on the other side; our cries are met with rejoicing. What looked and felt like death became life: changed, not ended.
These bodies.
[where we are going]
Death can come quietly, the silent slowing of a stopping heart. Or it can explode like anger, violent and abrupt. Death only happens to part of us: bodies, not souls. Sometimes souls stay close in the strange suspended time afterward, filling the room with sacred presence, intangible like incense rising. Dying begins with birth, but we rarely realize it because most of our days feel like life. Until the only end we can see, the closing of a door. Which we forget is a beginning: the passage to another side.
These bodies.
[what comes next]
We will keep them, but they will change, mysterious and new. The church calls this promise glorified but what do we know? Only one went before us in this way, and his new body startled those who knew him best. He ate again, and walked on roads, and let friends touch his skin. But he appeared suddenly, beyond walls or locked doors, and he disappeared just as quickly. He still spoke, strange words, and bore wounds, unscarred.
Resurrection only comes through revelation.
But here is a truth that woke me once, weeks after I held two tiny bodies in my arms, bodies I made within myself, knit together in darkness—brains and bones and organs and ovaries and every perfect part they needed to survive except strength. I woke like a flash in the heavy hours, in grief’s raw days, and heard these words, felt these words, knew these words: we only get glorified bodies from earthly bodies.
Resurrection depends on flesh and blood.
These bodies.
I polled readers on Instagram to ask whether I should go for a poem-ish original piece or a round-up of others’ writing on the Holy Labor today. Poem-ish won; I played with it here. But I’d love to know what you think about bringing back the bi-weekly list of links: yes or no?
Personally I love to read what you have written but you share lovely and wonderful things others have written too! Please do what you feel up to doing and know that you are loved by all who read your words.
Laura, these words stopped me in the best way. Keep writing and I will love any poem-ish you get up to.