This body of broken bones,
long healed, carries
my still soul-wounded self
up this hillside, turning
each internal question
with each external step—
careful of the rocks and roots
as much as the ruts
worn in my mind.
How many have stood here
at the base of this cross,
wrestling with their whys
or simply breathing the air
of gratitude because the weight
and wait are gone?
Jesus asked those in his day
if the eighteen crushed to death
under the collapsed tower,
same-named as this mountain,
were worse sinners for their fate
and answered No while calling all
to turn from their destructive ways.
He spit on the ground, made mud
with his hands, and smeared it
on a blind man’s eyes, then sent him
to the same-named pool
to wash and finally see.
So I go, the mud on my face
and ache in my heart
commending—not condemning—me
to every other struggling soul
heading toward the cleansing water
and the clear new light of day.
Originally published in the spring 2025 Mere Orthodoxy print journal. To become a member and receive future issues, join today.