
Jesus came into the room of my suffering,
and he baked a loaf of bread.
I know it was him because he spat on his fingers
and wiped the spit into my eyes, and I could all the better,
for the life of me, see.
I know it was him because he brought with him
a prostitute to pray together with me.
I know it was him, because he also brought
the memory of the last time I saw my enemy,
and asked me a question.
And it’s always the same, first he rips open the bread
that smells so good, we tremble with anticipation.
We spread it thick with butter and then
we eat it with our fingers dripping fat.
I know it was Jesus who came into the room,
because he didn’t just leave me at the threshold of grieving,
he came right on in and took as long as it takes;
that long.
I know it was Jesus because he didn’t accuse me
of anything or everything I could do wrong,
and he took out his ukulele to play us a song
he wrote especially for the occasion.
And I know it was Jesus because he turned up the music
so loud, there was nothing that could stop
the dancing.
I know it was him, because he didn’t have a simple answer
for every one of my questions.
In fact, he invited the lady of the night and he invited me,
to place our hands into the gaping hole in the side of his body,
and he also opened up his hands and invited us
to touch the scars we found there.
I know it was Jesus because there was no performance appraisal,
or nit-picking at failure, or expectations of anything;
other than love.
Yes, he listened to my story until he wept with my tears,
and uncovered the laughter I’d kept buried for years.
I know it was Jesus because he reached into the wounds under the ribs of my soul
and he placed his hands on the wounds in my mind and he said,
“Blessed are those who do not see, and yet believe.”
Yes, I know it was Jesus because the woman who came from
a brothel to meet me, became my sister,
and Jesus took out a bowl and ended up washing our feet.
Yes I know it was Jesus, because he put fresh logs on the fire
and was not in a hurry to leave.
I know it was him, because he encountered the wound in us
and we can never be the same.
I know it was him, because there was no obligation
and our hearts bled praise.
This is incredible and very touching. Brought tears! Thank you
I’m so blessed to hear this Sheri, sending warm blessings and thank you!
This is one true factual living share – so real – peeps who don’t have a clue how to express their pain hurt shame rejection abandonment ( due to fear of judgment) have a taste and a glimpse of how real hurt and pain is to each one of us – Jen thanks for allowing God to hang his love on your heart , so other’s can be free to share theirs too – 💛❤💜💙🧡💚 in so taking hold of their healing – 💚🧡💙💜❤💛
Thanks so much Jen for your special sharing, yes, it’s when we share our honest conversations and stories from the heart that we can heal together! Hugs!
I discovered your poem this morning led by the picture of the challah bread. I baked challah for the first time during a “Consider Jesus Lenten zoom retreat” when we were meditating on Jesus said “I Am the bread of life”. Your words so resonated with my heart …. Thankyou…
That’s beautiful to experience the tangible Bread of Life by baking your first challah bread, thank you for sharing Jane, I’m blessed that you were led here.