My earthly father is seated in a place thousands of miles away. I know the name of the country but not its coordinates. My reliance on travel experts, global guides- means I really don’t know where you are. Who you are.
As I pass the parade of pictures in my hallway, I occasionally stop to look at your face, am subconsciously reminded of your absence.
But on this day, I lingered over my favourite one. The picture where your eyes are kind and your hands are open. I consciously feel your presence, namely because that picture could be a mirror. I recognise the almond shaped eyes as my own, understand why kindness and openness are part of my DNA.
And so I remember to miss you.
To miss what fatherly love would look and feel like to an aching and bruised heart.
It’s Sunday morning. A time when a collective of aching, bruised hearts meet in church buildings. I know my earthly father will be there too, his own heart bruised but aided by prosthetic valves, prescriptions and supernatural peace.
And my God, my Heavenly Father? He is seated in a place millions of miles away. I know the name but not it’s coordinates. My reliance on religious experts, spiritual guides- means I really don’t know where You are. Who You are.
As I pass the parade of religious texts, I occasionally stop to look at Your face, am subconsciously reminded of my absence.
But on this day, I lingered over my new favourite one..
“Jesus Christ standing before the Samaritan woman becomes the mirror in which she sees not only the face of God but her own true face”
Inspired by ‘The Wisdom Jesus’ Cynthia Bourgeault