#75

 Did I sit idly by

as you took your last breath?

What's the scope of this

mortal wound, the breadth?

Can our schism be settled

over broken bread?

Or is fellowship

finally dead?

#74

 My favorite telling of the Gospel

was written only a few hundred years ago

in France.

A miserable journey

of judgment and redemption,

of power and forgiveness,

of rebellion and restoration.

So, I wonder, how 

the musical would play

were Monseigneur Bienvenue armed

like a pastor in my own land?

This Gospel has moved me to always

keep the garden gate open

for the fugitive,

the whore,

the sinner like me.

This Gospel gave breath to the

restoration made possible

when we see Jesus in the refugee

instead of letting a piece of paper

restrain a man to his past alone.

In my nation,

pastors approach fugitives with

firearms

instead of encouraging Jean Valjean

to take the candlesticks, as well.

I lament,

I confess,

I repent.

But I am one woman in a Church far larger.

Is it possible to even

reason with Javert?

#73

There are mysteries far too wonderful

for me to understand,

and I'm grateful for the peace

of resting, beloved.

The world is complex and 

I am small,

Oh that You see me at all.

For those in the tree,

straining to see

Jesus,

consider the lilies, the sparrows, 

and be.

For those looking for His Bride,

step outside, not just your door,

not just your subdivision,

or even the places your passport still works. 

Look for the lonely, the slaves and the starving,

that's where the Church is always thriving.

The Church will live on with beggars and addicts,

whoever is willing to start new

and keep starting new.

But it's hard to jump with your ass glued to a pew.

Oh that our hearts were lamenting

the pain and oppression in our own streets

instead of the loss of singing hymns.

What do the hymns say?

Why must you wear you're finest

and sing unmasked,

when Jesus climbed onto the cross

simply because he was asked?

#72

 Life itself is polarizing, from the first anaphase

to the leaving and cleaving

of marriage

to the winnowing of wheat from the chaff.

We are swayed-

we are pulled-

we are influenced;

we are living.

And yet,

I need not agree with you

to love you well,

deeply from the whole of my categorized soul.

#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