The Mouse at the Door

Cathedral Door in Lima, Peru

Not knocking at Jesus’s door, so thick and archaic,
so medieval looking and out-of-place in these uncertain times…
I rather sat observing it, wondering how it had gotten so gargantuan and weathered,
why it seemed not to have been opened in a very long time…
And as I sat and as I looked at it, it opened slightly and a mouse appeared…
not lab-white and pre-designed, but gray and ordinary.

It stared at me.

I don’t like mice particularly, especially when they gaze at me
with little pin prick eyes while teeth go gnash-a-gnash.
But something held me there transfixed by the enormity of the door,
and the ease with which this little pest had been able to maneuver it.
How did he do it? What was the trick? Did he know Jesus personally,
or had he only stolen cheese from God and was making his great escape?

He continued to stare; I stared back.

And then, quite oddly, (I promise there were no drugs involved)
he “beckoned me”–as in nodding his head in the direction of the door.

I didn’t move.

He did it again.

So I followed.

What happened on that most strange day
had little to do with mice, or cheese,
or doors that seemed impenetrable…

and everything to do with
true salvation.

H. Cristina Cassidy © November 2011

On Studying Hauerwas’s The Peaceable Kingdom

My head…an over-stuffed gourd of words not heard before….rebelled.

“No, not today. No poetry for you.

Go suffer in your echoing hallway of a holy cathedral.

I won’t give you words for free today.

You’ve–please excuse the ugly phrase–

shot whatever wad you had left

for flowing forth with eloquent profundities.”

My brain sighed.

I’d never heard it do that before.

Solemnly, I touched its fevered brow and said, “So sorry mate.

I’m learning all about this God and Christ and Holy Spirit thing.”

I turned to go.

It sighed again and said,

“Oh wait, I guess I’ll let you have

one word, ONE word alone, to make it all worthwhile.

Just make it quick. Don’t waste my time!”

I paused. I breathed.

“Shalom” I said.

And smiled.

H. Cristina Cassidy © November 2011

Lost Cabin, West Virginia

Photo by John R. Cassidy

In my wooded cathedral, God sings like the nightingale,
pulses through the veins of the trees and shines
with the glossy whiteness of a summer moon.
It is here that I hear what I cannot hear in the noisiness
of regular days, surrounded with doings that must be done,
words pushing me away from my inner sanctuary,
cutting me off from the silence, so not a silence in the woods,
so teeming with life that the quiet hurts my ears.
I come to the woods, for what? Is it to hear Your voice,
to feel Your life, to see Your light and my little self kneeling
in that light, aware of my inconsequential yet essential
being-ness? Yes. That. And more. I come because I know as
sure as my next breath that You are here. That “I” am not alone.

H.C. Cassidy © September 25, 2011

Eating the Mango

No one wants to be the last to eat the mango,
to succumb to juicy self-centeredness, to savor succulent greed.
Instead, we half and quarter it until the tiniest piece is left.
It calls us in the night, disturbing our sleep,
causing us to hate each other for being so holy.

H. Cristina Cassidy © September 2011

Palm Sunday, Bibiani, Ghana

Time separates from itself here,
divides into colors, and mixes
with the passive brown
of the children’s skin,
so many shades of pain.

These tiny vessels of the world’s neglect,
eyes searching into places within you
that no one sees except maybe God.
This reflection of your selfish self
bounces back at you with no malice intended. It is hard to bear.

Barbara-Alex-Prixila-Sistah-Adjus-Enoch-Georgina-
crowd around me, refuse to let me keep my distance.
No language, just touch, not grabbing,
but gentle tugs at my sleeve,
“Look at me, look at me!
Be my witness that I exist,
that this is not the end of hope,
that I matter.”

I, the fumbling white woman with her camera,
surrounded by more grace than exists in one
entire Western city, hear myself whisper,
“Speak but the word, and my soul shall be healed.”

Rebecca of the yellow dress,
ribbons on her shoulders,
clutches a green laced purse,
and shows me her ragged diamond slippers.
This little girl,
this African angel born of want,
her eyes yellowed by malaria,
her heart filled with faith,
says no word,
but gives me a smile.
Quickly, quietly,
I am saved.

H. Cristina Cassidy © June 2011

Dance With Me While I Wander

Dance with me while I wander,
here in this primal place.
I know you fear for me,
thinking I am a captive.
I am not.
You see an old woman
at the end of her
well-lighted years,
dwindling down,
a top on its last spin.
But I cover my mouth
to hide a laugh that rings
with delight in knowing
what I really am.
How gracious of my Creator
to transform me into a child again,
nimble of movement,
mercurial and pure of heart.
You, poor mortal,
are stuck in the big normal.
I, here, floating above you,
with one light touch
can redesign the sky.

H. Cristina Cassidy © March 2011

waiting

skin crazy, itching with desire
to do anything everything
to move this time along
drop it off the edge of a pier
smash it with a hammer
strangle it with the force
of one free hand
the whole waiting
plays no favorites
no one’s pushing forward
only feet dragging mud
across a concrete floor
the truth when looked at
in a shard of glass
reveals this endless
empty tunnel of
waiting

H. Cristina Cassidy © February 2011