Jesus takes my carefully planned calendar
and throws it out the window
where the birds eat it.
Jesus touches the hem of my clothes
and instantly I fall ill. Bedridden.
Jesus says, Woe to your puritan work ethics.
Didn’t my father say
you shall have no other gods?
I don’t think of my days as gods
but they are sneaky ones
I stuff to the brim with things I can say I did.
But not today. Not this week.
I am a body, broken. Immovable.
I lie, waiting for my own spirit to return.
Why, I ask Jesus, even though I know.
Enter my rest, he says, tucking me in
but I kick and whine like a toddler.
I’m not tired, I say as my eyes close
against my will. How is this yoke so difficult
when my burden is so light?
Sabbath
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