#71

 The coldness creeps into my soul

and I wonder if

hope will warm the world again.

#70

 Mother tell me the story, please

of how you met the messenger

and heard the Word so hard to believe?

What was the song you sang?

Tell me the whole birth story again.

How did you feel when you walked that long way

alone, still a girl?

What was it like to see your old friend,

your cousin, with child,

after so many years?

Tell me the whole birth story again.

How did it happen, your betrothed came around,

after the messenger appeared?

To know your child was set apart,

Holy, holy, holy.

Tell me the whole birth story again.

What was it like to travel again,

knowing well that your son could arrive

on the side of the road on your way to a town

you had never seen, your husband's ancestral home?

Were you weary of the family time,

or grateful to no longer be alone?

Tell me the whole birth story again.

Were you relieved or surprised

by the kindness of those who opened their home?

Did you feel Blessed among women

as each contraction tightened in the courtyard of a stranger's home

with their livestock as your nurses?

Tell me the whole birth story again.

How did you take it all in, Mother?

When shepherds nearby came to worship,

did you even notice?

Tell me the whole birth story again.

When the messenger spoke to your Lover, once more,

how did you feel as you fled from your home?

Did you have time to heal at the innkeeper's home,

or was it painful and terrifying on the Egyptian road?

Tell me the whole birth story again.

As the Son of God suckled on your breast,

did you worship the King in your arms?

As the Savior of Man cried out in the night,

did you sing him the songs of the Lamb?

Tell me the whole birth story again.

When the wise ones arrived from 

faraway lands,

following the Star to find your sweet Son,

what went through your mind as they

bowed down?

Tell me the whole birth story again.

Mother, I've sung of your birth story.

I've played with wooden figures every year I was a child.

I've studied your journey and sung your very song.

Tell me the whole birth story again.

I can't help but think that I've heard it wrong.

Tell me the whole birth story again.

#69

 It's dark and cold as we lean so far

away from the Sun, here in the North.

And the hope I was holding in my heart

for you

is extinguished (like an Advent candle)

but the hope for the Church

is alive and bright.

You could have arrived

on the longest night,

but you never materialized here.

It's not mine to know

if you're singing with angels

or if you were only a moment to throw me

deeper into the Father's arms.

Either way, I welcomed the very idea of you

with trepidation, yes,

but with so much hope.

That's the miracle of it all, I guess.

Even though you're not here,

HOPE is.

Even though it's dark and dreary,

cold and miserable outside our warm house,

hope is emblazoned on the souls of your father and me.

Hope is an anthem blasting from the soundbar under our TV.

Hope is the very message of the season that could have been

your birthday.

So whether you were born into Heaven,

like the cheesy plastic angel your Dad bought at the fabric store

(currently clamped to the top of our Christmas tree)

or if your soul is places I cannot yet imagine,

I love you little one.

Thank you for reminding me to hope.

*For Baby #3, due 12/22/2020

#68

 When every life matters,

Strangers find their way to your dinner table.

The conversation takes you to

daughter's middle names and

stories you can't quite understand

instead of questions about using.

My place is not to turn you over

to the deputy patrolling the neighborhood,

rather to really listen.

If you say you're hungry,

we'll find some snacks for the road

and if you're willing, we'll set a place at the

literal table.

That's how the Savior of us both

chose to dine without reservations.

Sister, I mean it when I promise to pray

and hope to meet you again in eternity.

#67

 It's too much.

This underwater rollercoaster,

Trying to fly.

My skull is caving in as my brain explodes.

There is no good option,

Only versions that are less bad.

The world is on fire and I'm drenched

In the samesame of inequity

Just like those I try to help,

Only a little less.

It's overwhelming.

It's consuming.

And the nightmare keeps unfolding.

#66

#65

When I talk about our son,
I refer to him as "our son".
I don't say he is "my husband's son",
even though that's true.
I don't call myself "a father's wife."
That would be unnecessary.

So, why do well-intentioned women call themselves
 a "pastor's wife"
or a "church-planter's wife"?
Because the male-centric church
considers women as second-class citizens.

We let our very language
decide our value
instead of listening to
the value awarded
by the Creator;
the value restored
by the Redeemer;
the value empowered
by the Counselor.

My husband cannot plant a church
anymore than I can plant a family.
We plant tomatillos and sugar snap peas.
We plant native shrubs to
keep our hillside from crumbling.
But if the Church grows in our neighborhood,
Scripture is clear,
it is the working of Jesus Christ.

So as I strive alongside
my husband and son,
sharing the Good News with everyone,
we watch our words,
the wellspring of Life.