Calming the Storm
The Spirit of God collided with the face
of the sea, drenching our boat, though no amount
of din or tumult seemed to penetrate
the prophet’s nap. Skidding from bow to stern,
I joined my brothers’ vigil at Jesus’ side
and searched his face—but not a twitch.
When had our mission become to ship this statue
out of a cryptic land where men will step
through waterfalls in search of silver totems?
Brushing his cheek, I said ‘It is as if
the Lord is as unfeeling as the waves!’
And the others shushed me over the hiss of spray.
But ever so slightly, Jesus smiled, I swear,
and seconds later rose up like a crest
to startle us with ‘Children do you fear!’
Then turned to the wind and rain and seemed to call
the life out of the storm and into himself—
till silence returned to his face, a smoking coal.
My brothers gossiped among themselves, but I
was speechless, could only try to meet the stony
look of Christ and hold at bay a torrent
of thoughts—a torrent I sensed that one day I could
part like a sheet, a threshold. But what would I find
in the wordless, pregnant cave on the other side?