For three days every year, we the believers in Bethlehem are “without” Jesus. To understand this “without” one must be “with”, and that is in your own hands, and that hard or soft boils in your own bitter, or open heart. On these three days between fasting and prayer, hunger and thirst, we release our robes and our halos into the River Jordan, and keep our spirits to ourselves, attempting not to tempt anyone to hurt us. It is not that we, the believers, are weaker on these three days; it is just the table of the Last Supper has turned, and we are the ones who have to come together to “form” faith, supporting our beloved son of God, wounded, bleeding, His eyes fixed on the Kingdom of Heavens.
They put him in a burial tomb has hollowed in the ground. They rolled a huge round rock, sealing the entrance.
For three days.
And on the third day, when the rock was removed, and there was no one inside, we realised how silly we were, to think that we were protecting Jesus for three days, when there was no need for all this theatre, all this melodrama, any more need to suffer.
Jesus was already in Heaven, by his Father’s side, sitting on the throne and.
The seraphim are circling his feet and.
Below them, the baby ducks are migrating to where swans won’t distract them and.
The blackbirds sing of future love on the chimneys and.
The goldfinches dance a beautiful dance of wind and.
Foxes sleep in abandoned gardens of wildflowers and trees flowering with abundance and.
Maybe I am a dream the foxes are dreaming, three stories above. I look at the sky, always with love and.