PTSD Jesus

The son of God finds it hard to get out of bed these days
Though his dad bangs on the kitchen ceiling to call him to breakfast
Jesus takes one look at the cold hard floor and shivers
As the polished wooden planks turn to water before him
Flooded with memories of walking upon it as he once did in Galilee
Which gives him nightmares now
As hungry things not seen since the dawn of time
Swim up to see what the soles of his feet might taste like
If his faith were to fail him
And natural laws reapplied

Mary tries to comfort him
As only a mother can
Applying a gentle cold washcloth to his forehead
Upon those too frequent times the night terrors bring on the sweaty shakes
Fanning him softly with cool night air
Saying soothing things
"It's okay
They can't hurt you anymore"
While gently kissing the scar upon his side with her fingertips

She can't help it
Anymore than he can
Cringing from her touch
As if it were a short Roman sword

Loud noises freak Jesus out
To say nothing of large crowds
For in his head they are screaming at him
Some begging for blessing or healing
Others calling for his head
Crying out that he is a demon

There are no stylish or functional hats for Jesus anymore
A baseball cap feels just like a crown of thorns to him
As much as a Stetson, a scarf, or the real sharp bloody thing

Sermons don't leave his lips as they once did
Now they are spoken haltingly
To small groups
Who know to give him some space
And truth be told those gatherings are attended out of respect mostly
Since the words have lost the fire that they once had
Now that Jesus is riddled with self-doubt and fear

It was truly a double edged sword that the Lord forged when He made Jesus a common man
Both as capable as great things as the rest of us
And as vulnerable too
Jesus now wears his worst scars where none can see
Trying to work things out with a therapist who specializes in PTSD