[coral-atlas]

easter vigil

it is easter, and the lord has risen, and not for me. (it’s okay, it’s not a secret. he knows this, and so do i.)

we vigil til midnight. there is no communion,  for we have no priest to bless it (that’s something the others believe in - i don’t). i rebel against it with all my being,  this lack of broken bread, of all things. even as i cannot bring myself to pray,  have no voice as i shape he is risen indeed, hallelujah! (he is risen indeed, but not for me). the doxology tastes bitter in my mouth yet how i ache for stale communion wafers, yearn to cup my hands and receive:  "coral, this is the body and blood of jesus,  broken and shed for you." 

it is easter, and jesus has risen and not for me. he knows this,  stands with me by the tomb in the garden watching over my sleeping form, overgrown with roses.  the tomb is empty and it is the emptiness which kills me. for jesus has risen, and I have not: he, returned to the land of the living i, alone once more beneath the ground.

it is selfish to admit. i know it — that i found comfort in Jesus having died, like me. that having his company in the grave is the least lonely i’ve been in so long.

we have cake and champagne at midnight. i do not tell them, but I would have preferred communion wafers. i’d never tell them.  it’s just me, after all,  wishing I wasn’t the only broken and unleavened thing at the party.

[coral-atlas]

to almost die is to die. i know this now. i have died many times since i was small (my earliest memory is of dying) and being grown is full of grieving and marveling over my many deaths, coming to terms with them, learning to live again on the other side, if such a thing be possible. the task is a tender one, and bewildering; equal parts gift and wounding. i will spend the rest of this (after)life making sense of it — how to go on after death. how to inhabit a body. how to be so resurrected and unresurrected at the same time.

[apocryphics]

J. Drew Lanham, Sparrow Envy: Field Guide to Birds and Lesser Beasts (2021) 

[coral-atlas]

dreaming of how god enters into suffering: as light pouring into the wound, as light pouring out, as elderly bumblebees in the marigold garden, as crackers and cheese, as a mug of tea to warm your hands & help you forget they are empty, just for a little while

[coral-atlas]

at the airport, about to get on a plane and fly toward an impossible thing. my lungs are shallow. i'm listening to the playlist i made for my younger self. i’m going home to where she is. i might find her there.

[coral-atlas]

update: she was there. she met me at the airport with flowers.

[coral-atlas]

at the airport, about to get on a plane and fly toward an impossible thing. my lungs are shallow. i'm listening to the playlist i made for my younger self. i’m going home to where she is. i might find her there.

[coral-atlas]

dwelling on forgiveness, the unfolding of arms, holding safely & making vulnerable of self as both/and, hiddenness as self-graving, connection & belonging as lifeblood / heaven / home

[coral-atlas]

on maundy thursday i tucked my two-year-old godson into bed and helped his mother sing him to sleep. there’s nothing my god cannot do - for you! and with great proclamatory joy he piped up, “or coral!” and if i’m honest i don’t always know what i believe about prayer, but i’ve lived ever since hoping i kissed a tiny prophet on his face that night

[coral-atlas]

i think of hagar all the time, her and her raggedly beating heart, running through the wilderness, going to god. asking god how to die. asking god how not to.

el roi — god of seeing / god who sees / god i cannot see. el roi, who sees me, and tells me to go back home. back to where the hurt is. each time, i ask if he will come too, if he will be with me. but by then the bush is burning, and god is quiet. he has never answered the question. he seems to feel the flames are answer enough.

i go to god in the wilderness often. i ask him how to die. he and i both know, i am asking him how not to.

[januaryhoney]

rice, mary oliver

[coral-atlas]

empty tumblr as witness or something, idk

[coral-atlas]

easter vigil

it is easter, and the lord has risen, and not for me (it’s okay, it’s not a secret. he knows this, and so do i).

we vigil til midnight. there is no communion, for we have no priest to bless it (that part the others believe in. i don’t). i rebel against it with all my being, this lack of broken bread of all things, even as i cannot bring myself to pray, have no voice as i shape, he is risen indeed, hallelujah!(he is risen indeed, but not for me). the doxology tastes bitter in my mouth, yet i ache for stale communion wafers; yearn to cup my hands and receive: "coral, this is the body and blood of jesus, broken and shed for you." 

it is easter, and jesus has risen, and not for me. he knows this, stands with me by the tomb in the garden, watching over my sleeping form, overgrown with roses. the tomb is empty. it is the emptiness which kills me, for jesus has risen, and I have not; he, returned to the land of the living; i, alone once more beneath the ground.

it is selfish to admit this. i know it — that i found comfort in Jesus having died, like me. that having his company in the grave was the least lonely i’ve been in so long.

we have cake and champagne at midnight. i do not tell them, but I would have preferred communion wafers. i’d never tell them. it’s just me, after all, wishing I wasn’t the only broken and unleavened thing at the party.

[coral-atlas]

touch the ark, you die. love the lord your god / save the lord your god / hold the lord your god in your open, aching hands / hold him like an infant, hold him because he's fragile, because he's falling, because he needs you / hold him like someone starving to be touched / brush hands with god, like a lover, like a child / love him / lose him / lift him / it's all the same, we all die in the end: die the moment god touches us, the moment we reach back, doomed because we loved him enough, longed for him enough, needed him enough to dare believe ourselves safe within arms' reach

[coral-atlas]

[eesirachs]

thinking about people in exile asking god--pleading--to return home. and god answering this prayer only by telling them no. you will not go home. plant your gardens. pray for the city of your captor. build a house here. sometimes god sees your suffering and hands you a shovel and some seeds instead of a way out. start planting, i guess

[kafk-a]

Julian K. Jarboe, ‘First Contact, Communion’ from Everyone on the Moon Is Essential Personnel

[coral-atlas]

Go to the Limits of Your Longing

Rainer Maria Rilke