That First Easter, Too

That First Easter, Too
by Brenna Rubio

That first Easter too, 
We thought we would find him elsewhere,
Creeping out of our shelters, our time in solitude,
With fragrant offerings in tender hands,
Determined to go and make death holy.
Imagine our frustration, our howls of mourning and loss,
If we had been denied,
Had been told to stay at home,
To leave our Jesus moldering alone.
Then instead our confusion and sick dread when we came
And found his resting place abandoned,
Empty but for a pile of stained bandages,
Like a physician’s room, destitute, after the battle has been lost.
How will we make death holy?

Then Jesus came to us
In our shelters, our places of solitude,
As we huddled, disoriented, lost and afraid.
Rough hands newly scarred, veins pulsing vitality,
He pulled up a chair, broke the bread, poured the wine,
Invited us to give thanks anyways, always, and to eat.
This simple meal, right where we are,
Sliding over parched tongues into growling bellies,
A liturgy of hope declaring even our unruly lives holy,
And a tantalizing taste of the feasting to come.