Manna From Heaven

Three years ago we parted

when you stepped over that great, mysterious divide

between our world and reality.

Though I have not seen you since that day,

you are.

You are there,

more like yourself and Him than you ever could be here.

My longing for you has not lessened, only deepened,

for you know things now I want to talk with you about.

I want to ask you questions as a little girl does to her father.

"What's Heaven like, Dad?"

"When Jesus talks, does he have a voice like yours?"

"Will He look at me the way you do?"

"What about His hands, Dad? Will they swallow mine up in that warm way yours did when I was little?"

My grief is no longer raw, exposed as it was to assault by the thought of you. I am healing and learning.

You are only a breath away from me,

separated by just this physicality of mine.

And I am learning about the manna that comes down

from where you are.

It falls down around me during the night,

softly,

quietly,

settling all around me.

 I am learning to gather in the morning

before the midday sun burns away

this Jesus bread.

It is always enough to sustain me

 for another day here away from the Promised Land.

It nourishes me, heals me, and fills me with hope.

I am full of the hope of being home with you someday,

not so far away.

Jesus, rain down on me,

manna from Heaven.

(written in reflection on the third anniversary of my dad's homegoing)