Member-only story
Holy Week in Hell
A head-hanging & hoarse Hallelujah
It’s Holy Week in Hell this week and they’re considering burying bodies in New York City public parks.
I’m not religious. Maybe vaguely spiritual, these days, but Easter week has always held me in rapt suspense. What if!? The magic and miracle is within us — just tomb laid and ready to rise? What if!? Love so great it tears a curtain of separation — God and woman. What if!? A message so hopeful it changes a hell bent world for eternity.
Kingdom come.
It’s Holy week in Hell as my dad undergoes chemotherapy alone in a sterilized hospital ward that, not ironically, was closed and sanitized after it was found to be ground zero for Coronavirus in my part of the world. Tell me about holiness as poison drips into his bloodstream. Tell me how it feels to let some of yourself die in order that another part will live. Talk to me about becoming eternal.
In isolation we wrack our brains for meaning, for eulogy, for epilogue. What will we leave behind? Faced with our own mortality we are spinning webs of “what if.” What if!?
Did you know the beeping sound of an immunotherapy IV ending is a type of prayer too, Holy Week? Did you know we are tasked with Kingdom Come?
