Companion on the Road

They are arguing on the road.
Those women must have imagined angels, he says.
The sun was bright and low, dazzled their eyes, and they were
irrational from lack of sleep and crying, and wanted
to believe an inconceivable hope. 
The body – well, the men agreed it was not there, so that much
must be true. Someone must have taken it. 
She is galled by his unwillingness to take on trust 
the witness of the women, points out that
Jesus himself would have given it the same  
credence, the same dignity, as that of any men. 
Surely, she asks, surely that birthed something, 
something new and bold and hopeful? 
It is not a good start to their journey 
(they are not far from the city).
Wife and husband have drawn to a standstill 
at the side of the road 
to argue the toss
about the reliability of the accounts.

It is then that he joins them. He is not afraid
to involve himself in the couple’s disagreement.
He asks them to tell him all about it. Lets them
get it off their chests.

It takes a while.

They have begun to walk again, 
their footsteps falling into the rutted rhythm 
of disappointment, verbalised by 
bewildered disbelief that he has somehow missed
the drama of the last few days.
Where has he been?

Having reconnected husband and wife
by allowing them to share their story,
join in its retelling,
he reconnects them with his story – God’s story –
of his people: their story, too, which they know in all its familiarity, 
and still forget so easily. 
He points out the way markers,
shows the route that was set 
for the new story they are living now, trailblazers, pioneers.
The new journey into promise.

It excites them. They want more of this,
this connectedness of hope.
They use the excuse of falling night, the 
conventions of hospitality,
to draw him in to stay and eat.
It takes a while to make the bread. And when it comes, 
when the table is spread with dates and olives, cheese and 
good green leaves, they fall silent from their chatting,
thankful for these simple gifts 
of food and wine, 
life 
and strength.

The bread is lifted – not by the master of the house – 
but by the new host at the table.
Blessed are you, Lord God of heaven,
he says, breaking it, this time
with no need to multiply by thousands
for the hungry. 
He gives it, serves them; this role, a woman’s work,
to see that male guests were fed before herself.

And in that act, they knew him.  They saw
the kingdom of the loved by God:
the smallest, least, the last, the overlooked
becoming one, remade by freedom’s breath.

The vanished presence prompts them to rethink the 
women’s morning stories. 
The real encounter sends a flame of laughter
into their hearts, a new eye-opening wonder at scripture’s hints 
and tantalising treasure trails. 
The mystery is domestic, in the home and heart,
though not domesticated, never safe or dull.  
It lives and breathes.
In walks.
In conversation.
In welcome at a table.
In serving.
In bread,
broken.