Have you ever talked to yourself?
Asking for a friend. 😉
Really, though, I can think of many times throughout my life where self-talk took on the form of a prayer, when I realized I was no longer trying to work out the situation in my own mind but, in fact, crying out to God.
Today’s poem, on this Christmas Day, examines the inner thoughts of Mary, the mother of Jesus, as she walked out those early years with her son and life settled into a sort of normal, the everyday experience of a young mama watching her toddler sleep.
Did she ponder the future? Of course she did. Did she hope her son would not suffer as greatly as the prophet, Isaiah, foretold? What mother would not? Did she long for time to slow down, for her son to stay little and not have to face the brutality of the grown-up world which made survival difficult, at best? This I can certainly believe.
The love of Advent encompasses so much more than we can fully comprehend. A holy God made flesh, a child born to die, a mother obediently walking a road that will surely end in unspeakable pain,
“All because your Abba loves this broken world…”
Merry Christmas my friends. Let’s lean into the story of Christ, allowing God to speak into the deep places we are often tempted to close off from Him. Celebrate, feast and, above all, worship our Savior/King for doing the unthinkable and loving us at our very worst. He is worthy.
In the night the angel came and bade us go.
Up and out of Bethlehem
Down, down to Africa
Where my son would be safe for now
He sleeps, now, on his side,
Palms pressed together and cradling the fullness of
His rosy cheeks.
His eyelids flutter as he dreams, then he sighs.
Watching him brings peace to my troubled heart.
How many little ones did Herod slaughter?
Oh my God.
This little boy, is he aware of what he has begun?
This miraculous one who emerged from my virgin womb
Looks at me with eyes clear as a summer day
And when he laughs I am drowned in the love
Of Heaven’s son.
What will come of him,
This child who holds my hand in a crowd?
The prophets foretold much suffering.
Is it wrong that I long to pray for you to change your mind?
Born to die,
My heart knows it’s true.
Oh little one, are you yet aware of what lies ahead,
All because your Abba loves this broken world?
As I brush your cheek with the back of my fingers
Tears flow again.
The burden I bear as your mother is almost unbearable.
Yet I praise Him.
I am honored, my son, my messiah
To bear you through childhood.
Love fills my soul and I magnify the Lord
Who blessed me above all women to raise you.