Into the River Again

After my mother died, I understood about the river of grief that runs beneath everything, easy to access, easy to dip one’s cup. My mother used to cry in church seeing a child, not necessarily hers, walking down the aisle, ready to receive the body and blood, ready to take and eat. The Passion of Christ did not make my mother cry, though she loved Mary, and how Jesus performed his first miracle, water into wine, to please her. I was moved more by Lazarus, though wondered what it was like for him, stumbling out of the dark cave, pitiless sun in his eyes, coming to understand he’d have to die again. And moved too by Pontius Pilate washing his hands as he stood on the balcony eyeing the crowd and wishing this grief were somebody else’s job.