Zarephath

How did the widow of Zarephath know

that the god whose tribes shunned her blood, battled her nation,

now chose her to rescue the last of his prophets?

The mythical man who raced chariots, stood up

to narcissists, called rainstorms out of the sea,

summoned fire from the skies on the other god’s servants,

was lost into desert three years ago – died, they said,

died, everybody believed. Died, like she and her son,

of starvation, the death she had only one loaf of bread

left to wield off. Senseless stories, but still

it made more sense to think that his god shrugged and left him

than finding him here on her doorstep, a study in contrasts,

a faithful one outcast, a skeletal shadow

with certainty-fire in his bloodshot eyes, asking

for what he said birds brought each day for three years,

for her last bit of hope, for “a morsel of bread.” 

How did new understanding evolve like new wine

in Elijah’s mind, splitting clean-and-unclean just like old wineskins?

Or seeping, like water from brook – still impossibly

flowing – across his dry tongue? Or did insight

pierce sharp, like a raven’s beak, on the first day

that a carrion-bird fed him? Somehow he saw through miracles

into meanings, discovered a purity so deep it cannot

be stained when the hands of God-with-us are covered

in filth, when the with-ness takes taboo form, even

when all around people are dying while God shows

he’s greater than gods of the dungheaps and death.

Where did the ravens’ bread come from? Who kneaded,

baked, lacked it? Did children die hungry without it

or altars stand bare before gods too short-armed to stop

thieving birds? Where did the God who twists curses

to praise – undermines symbols – sends olive branches

and food via ravens – steal bread? All these questions –

what wisdom could withstand the weight 

of the answers?

She broke what she thought was the very last wafer

in thirds. He received from her bony hands one more

insult-turned-to-miracle. (Outrageous unspoken 

truth of the outcast: a God that turns tables– someday in the temple, this night making heroes 
of Sidonian widows and scavengers of 
holy men.) And they ate, widow, orphan, and fugitive, 
while the world hummed with its deep wide wild questions:

“What is the secret beyond oil and flour

flowing tomorrow – like rescuing rain

on sky-forgotten ground – from your now-empty jars:

How does kindness run fuller than rivers when drought ends

in hearts of the lonely, the grieving, the shunned?” 

They licked the last crumbs from their grimy hands,

stomachs still empty, 

minds too weak for questions,

but hearts very quiet and full 

of the things that grow best in dust – grief 

and compassion. 

graffiti along the Camino de Santiago Photo copyright, me.