Nailed to the Cross by words
Good Friday always seems to find me in a reflective mode. What do I reflect on? My own Garden of Gethsemane and my own Good Friday. But also the Good Friday’s we all go through. The suffering inflicted on our bodies and minds by others but also by ourselves. To use the chiche; Man’s inhumanity to man. Whether you believe in the story of Christ’s crucifixion or not, Good Friday is essentially a portrayal of the suffering we all experience regardless of our faith, beliefs or unbeliefs.
And we all have Easter Sunday, a day of light and hope. A day I cling when I feel nailed to the cross. We are nailed to the cross in so many ways and the methods used are not metal. Words can be just as deadly. As can be our own thoughts. For any of you suffering today, hold on, your resurrection is not far away.
Here’s a poem I wrote which shows how words can nail someone to the cross. I read this poem, last Friday, at the launch of the beautiful literary broadsheet, The Comorant. It’s been on my mind ever since. The fact that it was received so well, at the launch, has really touched me and encouraged me to continue to write and share my work. Please remember unlike Christ in his Garden of Gethsemane you are not alone. It may feel like that sometimes but there is always someone to stand with us, if we reach out.
Happy Easter.
Vows
By Anne Walsh Donnelly
I do, he said.
He also said,
I’ll give up smoking for Lent.
Just going to town for cigarettes, won’t be long.
Battery in my phone died.
I won’t be going to the pub after the baby’s born.
I only went for a fast one to wet the baby’s head.
Got delayed, Dad needed a hand pulling a calf.
I didn’t do it to hurt you.
It was only a few calls to chat lines.
There’s nothing wrong with our marriage.
It’s all in your head. You’re depressed.
You’re an ass. A bitch.
Can’t please you, no matter what I do.
I’ll burn the house down if you leave.
Top myself, then you’ll get nothing.
I can’t afford to pay you maintenance.
You’ve destroyed our family.”
At the courthouse door, he said,
Come home, the loneliness is killing me.
Originally published in The Comorant.