I don’t recall if I shared this poem about John’s mother back in 2017 when I first wrote it. I thought about it today, and resurrected it ( pun intended, LOL) ;made a few new edits. In our chruch we’ve been discussuing how Jesus could not have been white and the church is trying to change out Jesus photos to be more accurate. There’s much talk about “White Jesus” being a micro-agression in these days of racial awareness. (PS and a little “double-entendre” for the ending. )

Blue-Eyed Jesus
for Nona

She lived in her house until the end.
Car in the garage, keys on the kitchen desk.
Ninety-six and a half, determined to drive
if she needed to.

Mostly bones and skin, she hung on
rocking back and forth
in her harvest gold chair
doing less and less each week.

A painting of a white, blue-eyed,
Jesus hung over her bed.
She was a believer - He, her protector,
first thing she saw upon waking in the morning,
last thing when retiring for the night.
His eyes followed as she crisscrossed the room.

She had it all figured out; how it would be,
blue-eyed Jesus taking her by the hand
in a halo of gossamer light
ascending to heaven
reunited with her beloved Frank,
of this she was certain.

I didn’t grow up in that tradition,
figure no one knows for sure,
(except maybe her.)
If blue-eyed-Jesus-above-her-bed
gave comfort what was the harm?

While emptying her house,
I feel those blue eyes
following me,
or do they lead –
from above her well-made bed,
not a wrinkle in sight.