If I could meet Jesus, I would ask him to rock me.
I’d climb into his lap and he’d put his arms around me and begin to rock.
No need for stories or parables or explanations, no words or lullabies, just rock me, I’d say.
I might bury my face against his chest and melt into his warmth as he rocked me.

I could relax into that wordless embrace and let go my tears as he rocked me.
I’d know why people followed him and be a part of that which caused great fear and awe, but he’d simply be rocking me.
Others might be waiting their turn and it wouldn’t matter.
The circle of his arms, the cup of his comfort would bigger to accommodate them all and my rocking would be uninterrupted.

A creaking rocking chair, waves lapping at our boat, in a subway train, sitting cross-legged in the grass or sand, we’d just be rocking.
Jesus rocking me, rock, rock, rocking me, keep on rocking me, just rocking me.
When my salt water tears and nose blowing subsided, I might begin to laugh, and he’d keep rocking.
I might laugh and throw my head back and howl till my sides ached, rocking all the time.

There would be no limit to how long he’d rock me.
Day and night, every season, old and young, he’d rock me.
Front and back, side to side, around in a circle just rocking.
And after we’d rocked for a million years, I’d notice the rocking of my breath, the rocking of my pulse, the rocking of the tides as if he’d never left.

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