I am fearfully made and I imagine the sleek curves of my kidneys and the round red onion shape of my bladder. I will never see those parts with their perfect forms, their elegant overlaps sealed in my skin. All I know is their transparent function, or its change, or that blind nerve dance we call pain.
I will never see those long pale ropes that take my food and turn it to steps or speech. All I know is the wonder of containing such exchange, that lets the morning eggs and the noon bread rise as song in the kitchen, laughter in the back yard, rise as indignation, care, or grieving, rise as love or longing or belated thanks.
Things go unnoticed around here while we do the important stuff the singing praying sermonizing baptizing. We don’t read the instructions want to get on with it insert the batteries push the button watch the screen light up. Script stage directions steps one two three are all fine print we think, or don’t until we find ourselves at home watching rain soak the garden and notice that the screen has gone dark. When is it that we turn to face the back of the church? Do we stand or sit at the Psalm and is there anything at all about bowing as the cross makes its leisurely progress? What words are to be said while earth is cast upon the coffin and who was it after all who was supposed to meet the body
This was a gale that formed a fist, a punch turning into a full kick that almost sent me flying downhill. The Greek word translates as “a movement of air.” But this was karate; I loved the force of it, its full release and enthusiasm.
In my tedium, I wish I might keel over when that other spirit blows, or that that fierce, holy breath would fill me to almost-bursting, a red balloon buoyant with air, pressure inside and out, and no strings attached.
Wee Agnes Sawrey widdow & Dorothy Tyson Spinster do severally make oath yt ye Corps of Margaret Tyson of Gryzedale in the Parish above s’d beeing buryed the first of Aprill 1696 was not put in wrapt wound up or buryed in any shirt sheet shift or shroud mad or mingled with Flax Hemp or any Coffin lined wth cloth or any materiall but what is made of sheep wooll only according to a Late Act of Parliamt made for Burying in Woollen. In witness herof wee the saide Agnes Sawrey & Dorothy Tyson have sett our Hands & Seals. Aprilis, Ano Di 1696. —Parish document in St. Michael and All Angels Church, Hawkshead, Cumbria
In Norway when you die, they clothe you in a gown of purest white. Egyptians sucked out organs, layered presoaked linen strips around each desiccated limb. It matters what you wrap a body in.
I am one of the few that walk the footpaths on the fell today who put on wool against the sharp October air. The scattered sheep are unimpressed. Warming these hills with active tongues, they are unaware that Parliament, to buoy the trade, once ruled that only wool could be the spun and woven garment of the dead.
Agnes and Dorothy held to the law, picking softest weave of shift or sheet or shroud to lay against the body of their Margaret— like the Marys in the story, who laid his body out, washed and oiled, and put, wrapt, wound up, and buryèd each limb in swaddling clothes to match the ones his little body wore in Bethlehem—the cloth he wore to meet with life and fight with death— he who newborn slept among the shepherds and their silent, woolly sheep.
In the back ward of the Alzheimer unit, I prepare a table for communion and drop two wafers on the silver plate with a quick hand motion—a throw.
Dropping on the tray, two dice tossed below the foot of the cross stare back at me with their white face uncubed, flat, and circled.
A shiver shoots through my spine: we are soldiers still casting lots for Jesus’ robe. I stare at the snake eyes and wonder what I have won.
Two signatures: the sign of white crosses stamped, nailed an imprinted metaphor of bread stumbled through my eyes: the body of Christ passes over my tongue.
Study war no more
Mar 18, 2011
Michael Izbicki grew up in a nondenominational church in California. A National Merit Scholarship finalist, he chose to go to the U.S. Naval Academy out of a sense of duty to his country during a time of war. At the naval academy he began to doubt whether the career to which he had committed himself could be squared with the tenets of just war doctrine. He got in trouble when he responded no to this exam question: "If given the order, would you launch a missile carrying a nuclear warhead?" After a four-year legal battle, the navy discharged him as a conscientious objector. Izbicki may have to reimburse the service for part or all of his education (New York Times, February 22).