Talitha Koum
He had held this hand before.

Not this particular hand, but the cold hand of death...and he had seen it's face many times. He remembered traveling to celebrate the Passover as a child, and the road was lined with the poles of a thousand crucifixion's on either side. He would never forget those faces.

And now here he was, looking into that face again and holding death's cold hand.

He remembered holding his father's hand for unmeasured time after his death. He had prayed for him. Hoping so deeply that God's will would be bent and that mercy would be granted. It had seemed so final...so defiant. "Work the miracles here that you did in Capernaum!" the voice echoed in his head. All these works he had done, and yet he could do nothing to breathe life back into his own dad's body. "Do something!" his mother had pleaded in anguish. "It's not my time...it's not my time..." he had answered.

Empty.

Helpless.

And now he held the hand of death again. But this time it was small and soft. Not the hand of a old carpenter, but of a little girl. A cold hand that masked the warmth of life that must have moved so vibrantly within her not so long ago. And again the feeling of helplessness came and the mocking defiant voice, "What can you do?"

On my own I can do nothing. (Faith has a funny way of showing up when you can't trust yourself.) This is the blessing and curse of being man, he thought. Not helplessness, but dependence.

He gripped the hand and smiled in the face of death, leaned forward and kissed it.

"Talitha coum..." He whispered joyfully, "Talitha coum! Little girl, wake up..."

posted by Jimmy at 11:04 PM | |