Thursday

So a bit of back story: The same morning I went to the tomb and found him there in the garden--well that night, Cleopas and a friend headed out towards Emmaus. And Jesus showed up there, on the road with them. They didn't recognize him either, at least not at first. Which tells me I'm not entirely mad. When Cleopas and I chatted, he said that he could physically look at Jesus and see him, but his mind--his mind couldn't grasp that what he was seeing was real. So he just figured it was a random guy walking down the road. Until he broke the bread. And then it was as if clarity broke through the foggy veil of sight. They recognized him over dinner. Something about the familiarity of the meal, coupled with the language. It's hard to explain. I feel a little less alone, knowing that Jesus is appearing to the others, just like he promised he would.

Last night he came by. It was quiet in the house. Everyone asleep, full bellies, excited energy from all the resurrection (that's what he's calling it) commotion. I was asleep and he came in and sat on the edge of my bed. He didn't say a word and I wonder how long he was there. I woke up and we just stared at each other for a bit, neither of us saying anything.

With him it is comfortable and strange and delicious and odd and good all at the same time. He says he has more places to go, more people who need to see this thing for themselves. The marks are there. From last Friday. But they don't weep. I touch them and he doesn't flinch, says they don't hurt. He is real. Flesh and bone and breath--ah that breath that I could breathe all day long, like perfume, like the air for my own lungs.

"Close your eyes," he says. And I do. And he touches my hair and I fall asleep and I dream.