Come, he said. I simply came.
And still you ask me how.
His come means COME!—not how come.
On water it's walk or wonder.
Wondering scuttled my walk,
but not before those first few steps.
Preposterous! you say, and I'd have said
the same, yet even rain that falls
in heavy drops is lifted up as mist.
Heavy indeed our hearts—you know
those sudden squalls, the terror they strike.
Heavier still on sighting what seemed
a spirit—walking the waves! All at once,
"It is I,"
transcending our little selves,
transforming our darkness,
echoing everywhere "I it is I"
with a lightness that leavens
and lifts, even laughs in us.
"Lord," it is singing—
and right out of me, mind you,
"Lord, ... bid me come."
Effortless asking, effortless even
the springing to action over the side
to walk the wave . . .
and still today
this Christ in all, still showing how
by showing who: It is I—fear not
It is I.
