Seeing differently, seeing the truth
On this page is a poem, “Adagio,” written by Gloria Waggoner, a poem recently published in a distinguished volume of writings honoring motherhood. To say that I am extremely proud of her recently recognized work is an understatement.
Though I have had the privilege of reading and being moved by Gloria’s writings through the years, I now see her published poem differently, in a new light and context, as the truly artistic and accomplished expression that it is. Such recognition is a wondrous gift.
Yet, I am quite aware that the poem did not change. It is still what it was and what it has been for some time. It is my recognition that has changed, my seeing differently.
After his Resurrection, Jesus walked along the road to Emmaus with two of the disciples. Unaware of the Resurrection, and not recognizing that it was Jesus with them, they told him the despairing story of the death of the one they had hoped would redeem Israel (Luke 24:13ff).
Later, when he broke bread with them, they recognized him for who he was, the Risen Lord. Reflecting on their road experience, they asked each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us …?” They now truly saw who had been there all along. Jesus had not changed from the time he walked with them until he broke the bread. What changed at that moment was their recognition of who he was. They then saw differently and saw the Truth, that in Jesus the power of life had conquered death.
The journey of faith is not about making Jesus appear or changing every situation to suit us. We cannot. We can, however, be ready to recognize the One who is already there, who is, has been, and will be part of our journey; and to see the miraculous in our midst.
The insights of author Willa Cather speak to this truth,
The miracles of the church seem to me to rest not so much upon faces or voices or healing power coming suddenly near to us from afar off, but upon our perceptions being made finer, so that for a moment our eyes can see and our ears can hear what is there about us always.
How true this can be in persons and in poems, and for us all in this Eastertide.
