When he first heard the words,
he was the first to hear them:
“You must be born again.”
He was old and the metaphor
muddled his mind: go back
into my mother’s womb–
at this age?
Jesus, however, was not about
to forsake his role as midwife.
There in the darkness, he called
the old man to think of something
other than dying, to let his heart
hear he was the one whom
God so loved.
When my grandfather died,
he was only five years older
than I am right now, maybe no
older than Nicodemus that night.
What kills us all in bits and pieces
is living as though love is earned;
birth is a gift.
The God who birthed the universe
has chosen to spend everyday
since in labor, in the pain of
birth and rebirth, a tenacious
expression of love, a ferocious
gift of grace we cannot deserve,