Easter in the Cancer Ward

Drew and Jon have introduced me to my new favorite thing....a poetry workshop at Asbury Seminary. Sadly, tonight is the last night of the formal workshop, so in honor of it I shall post the poem that impacted me the most. Take time to read this poem by Nicholas Samaras, "Easter in the Cancer Ward". Enjoy


Easter in the Cancer Ward

Because it has been years since my hands
have dyed an egg or I've remembered
my father with color in his beard,
because my fingers have forgotten
the feel of wax melting on my skin,
the heat of paraffin warping air,
because I prefer to view death politely from afar,
I agree to visit the children's cancer ward.

In her ballet-like butterfly slippers, Elaine pad-pads
down the carpeted hall. I bring the bright bags,
press down packets of powdered dye, repress my slight unease.
She sweeps her hair from her volunteer's badge, leaves
behind her own residents' ward for a few hours' release.
The new wing's doors glide open onto great light. Everything is
vibrant and clattered with color. Racing
up, children converge, their green voices rising.

What does one do with the embarrassment of staring
at sickness? Suddenly, I don't know where to place
my hands. Children with radiant faces
reach out thinly, clamor for the expected bags, lead
us to the Nurses' kitchen. Elaine introduces me and reads
out a litany of names. Some of the youngest wear
old expressions. The bald little boy loves Elaine's long mane of hair
and holds the healthy thickness to his face, hearing

her laugh as she pulls him close. "I'm dying,"
he says, and Elaine tells him she is, too: too
much iron silting her veins. I can never accept that truth
yet, in five months, she'll slip away in a September
night - leaving her parents and me to bow our heads, bury her
in a white wedding gown, our people's custom.
But right now, I don't know this. Right now, we are young,
still immortal, and the kids fidget, crying

out for their eggs. Elaine divides them into teams;
I lay out the tools for the operation.
I tell them all how painting Easter eggs used to be done
in the Old Country. Before easy dyes were common,
villagers boiled onion peels, ladled eggs
into pots so the shells wouldn't break.
They'd scoop them out, flushed a brownish-
red, and the elders would polish and polish

them with olive oil, singing hymns for the Holy Thursday hours.
The children laugh and boo when I try to sing. The boys swirl
speckles of color into hot water, while the girls
time the eggs. When a white-faced boy asks from nowhere
if I believe in Christ and living forever,
I stop stirring the mix, answer,"Yes, I do." I answer slowly
and when I speak, my own voice deafens me.
The simple truth blooms like these painted flowers

riding up the bright kitchen walls. I come
to belief. I know that much. Still, what a man may
do with belief demands more than what he says.
Now, the hot waters are a stained, rich red. The eggs have
boiled and cooled. To each set of hands, Elaine gives
one towel, three eggs. I pass the pot of melted paraffin,
show these children how to take the eggs and dip them in
and out. While the wax hardens to an opaque film, we hum

Christos Aneste and the room bustles, ajabber
with speech. Holding pins firmly, we scratch out mad
designs where the color will fill. Small, flurried hands
etch and scrim the shells. Everyone's fingers whorl
and scratch in names, delicate and final.
Edging the hall's threshold, an April's allow-
ance of sun filters through tinted windows. Faces furrow
in solemn concentration. Looking to Elaine, my thoughts clamor

for what is redemptive in illness, for having
a Credo to hold these people to me. Etchings
done, everyone immerses the waxy eggs in the pooled
dye. We ooh together when transfigured eggs are spooned
out, wiped and dried on the counters. Soft wax
is peeled gingerly, flecked away; more oohs for the tracks
of limned lines, testimonial names.
We burnish the shells with olive oil for a fine sheen

For a moment, the cultivated, finished eggs hush
the room. Then, every child goes wild in a rush
to compare, they show the nurses, each
other. The bald boy taps my waist, Lined up and speech-
less, they present me with a bright, autographed
egg, communally done. Elaine makes me close my eyes and laughs
when small limbs push at my back to follow
her. They shove my hand in the cool, wet, red dye. The hollow-

eyed girl squeals till tears streak from her laughing.
Another child cries, "You'll never get it off!"
And today, I don't want to. Today,
we've painted eggs a lively color, not caring
about the body's cells and the cells' incarceration.
I lift my arms to embrace Elaine and dab her nose and chin.
And my hands are vivid red. My hands
are bloody with resurrection.

and we are laughing.

Thank You Ladies....

Because believe it or not, you are always teaching us fellas something.

I was having the discussion just the other day how mysterious girls can be; that to us guys, their very nature and way of interacting is an absolute enigma at times. For example, and one of my favorite examples, is the situation that takes place when riding in a car.

First I will begin with the guy version of this situation. (NOTE: This is a car full of guys)

Guy A (to driver; Guy B): Man, turn down the heat...it's running me outta here!

Guy B (turns down heat): ok.

Now let's insert a to this car two girls....

Girl A (very ambiguously to Girl B): Do you think it's hot in here?

Girl B (in response to Girl A): Yeah it may be a little hot....

5 minutes later....

Girl A (this time speaking louder so the driver, Guy B, gets the point): So, do you still think it's hot in here?

Guy B (speaking to the car): Is it too hot?

Girls A and B (looking at each other): It's whatever....but it's a little warm.


And there you have it. Complete mystery. This situation cracks me up every time I see it (especially as the bonehead driver out of touch with the subtle hints from you ladies). But this situation can also be a great instructor. It opens up the very reason that guys sometimes fail to understand their female counterparts...they aren't clued into the mystery.

In reading the book of Proverbs you stumble across a lot of verses concerning wisdom, many of which refer to wisdom as a person - and surprisingly enough that person being female. Now, I am not attempting to hold a spiritual women's equality seminary here, but if you know anything about the timeframe and culture from which the book of Proverbs arises, then you know that women were not looked at like men were. Considering that the Jewish culture was a very patriarchal one it is quite surprising to see Wisdom, referred to as a trait from the Lord, to be given a female quality.

In researching the Hebrew language, the word for wisdom is "hochmah". This word holds only a God-like quality, and is different, not a synonym for the word knowledge or "Yad" - which is acquired human knowledge, from experience - even experiences with God. "Hochmah" is an innate God knowledge, understandings of His plans, His will, and His purpose. And interestingly enough, "Hochmah", a central trait to God is female (complete with an 'ah' ending).

Why is God's wisdom female? Simple, because it is mysterious. To a culture that lived, breathed, and moved within a male-driven society, the wisdom of the Lord was and is strangely mysterious. And even still to us, there is this mystery and beauty about God's way that just perplexes us...just like as a guy, so do my female friends confuse me. There is such beauty and wonder in the mystery! So again I say to you ladies...thanks for the insight. And much like I would like God to tell me just how to do things (the same as I would prefer a girl to just instruct me to turn the heat down) there is such an amazing beauty in the fact that he gives little insights and hints to see if I am paying attention, if I am connecting to Him, and if I can respond in a way that pleases Him. Thanks for the mystery - it makes her...and HIM so much more beautiful!