At Jesus' Feet

Today I try to meditate.  I don't really know how.  I sit quietly with eyes closed and try to clear my mind.  How do you clear a mind that won't stop?  I try simply listening.  I hear a motor outside.  I hear a plane overhead.  And I hear the loud ticking of the clock.  I try to concentrate on the ticking and try to move my hearing beyond the ticking to listen more deeply.  Not really working.

I try to think of only God.  How can I think of God?  The idea is too broad therefore too vague.  I don't know what he looks like, He is spirit.  How do you 'think of God'?  I try picturing the face of Jesus, to concentrate on that.  Too many artists, too many paintings, too many movies with too many actors.  I don't know what he looks like.  I can't picture a face I've never seen.  Not working.

I suddenly think of Jesus' feet.  I can picture his feet.  So I see myself sitting on the floor at Jesus' feet, with him sitting on a seat beside me.  I touch his beautiful feet.  His left hand is on my head.  I try to wait and see if I feel power coming from his hand.  Not yet, it just rests there. 

At some point he calls me "My child."  And then he says, "Speak, my child."  I begin to talk about his feet.  His beautiful feet.  How they carried him from town to town spreading the Good News, then all too soon trudged through the streets bearing the weight of his own cross, finally carrying him to Golgotha where they were nailed to that very cross.  For me.  For everyone. 

He says "Tell others."

I ask, "Whom shall I tell?" 

He says, "Whoever will listen.  Leave that to me."

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