New Year's Eve: Poem

out of the darkness
by Andy Kennelly

We’ve walked
this long, mean street
365 days in a row—
true. Each one folded
out like the one before;
rows of windows are
vacant eyes, dusty
corners and sidewalks
lay strewn with broken bits
of hope. We tread these days,
step across the brim of time
and trust is putting one foot
in front of the other. I see light
move like a stream out
of you--fall into a river
that rushes to the ocean and
the sky breaks open and we
are shingled in starlight…we
pick our way through shining
orbs, feet light with dreams. All
that is behind is dark, and
before us, only light.

Snow-Cousin

The falling snow in her quiet is my kin. The way she comes, soft, and nests unheard on tree limbs and rooftops—this, my song. She spins her dance through pale sky and wind with silent grace—no thunder clapping prologue…no window tapping insistence. Just this—slow falling accumulation that takes one by surprise in the morning.   

Today we are intimates, my cousin snow and I. This morning she came calling with this gift of replevied beauty—the land all luminous and pristine—and reminded me that it is still Christmas. I awakened to the remnants of a week of feasting…cookie crumbs on the floor, half-eaten trays of confectioneries on the counter, the festive dishes stacked in neat piles. And laundry.

Full days of merry led to neglect of the washing and I awaken this morning to this realization. Mounds and mounds of it. There is a load of whites in the dryer waiting for my hands and I fill the other with colors—blue jeans, the new pajamas my mother-in-law gifted me with, Jeffrey’s Christmas robe…in they go. I carry the basket of whites in the living room and am about to feel the weight of it all when she comes. I see her twirling through the French doors and I sit the basket down, lean into the glass and let her hypnotic dance fill me. My breath is lace and I feel the cold press through me.

The light of morning has not yet come to full and the boys still dream upstairs. There is nothing in her dance to alarm or awaken them. Yet I feel the stirring of these tiny bits of heaven’s light divagating in the dawn.

Christmas coming down.

Sunday morning the pastor reminded us that there are 12 days of Christmas…this season is not over until the magi discover the Christ on Epiphany Sunday.

This I tend to forget, or disregard in my desire to return to the norm. Things need to settle down, after all.

But my heart strains against leaving this season behind. The babe sleeps soft in the manger. On Christmas morning Jeffrey plucked the Christ child from his hiding place and now the core of our nativity is complete. The wise men still wander.

There is nothing ordinary about the falling snow—nothing every day-ish. Her crystalline flakes float in the wind, carry shimmer to earth. My cousin snow understands how to go about the business of life and carry beauty within.

Can I see Christmas this way? Can I carry it like a snow-dance all year long? Fall back into the rhythm of life with quiet beauty that falls over all it touches—embracing, covering, spreading Christmas over all?

I back away from the glass and return to the basket. This quiet—this time alone is usually my prayer time. I stare at scads of white and determine this: this laundry will be my prayer. These balls of socks are my prayer beads, each soft fold a line of grace. I touch the stuff of life with my heart and I know that this is Christmas. The snow-dance lifts me, spins my every-day around. We dip and sway back into life in a quiet rhythm of beauty.

And I hum my prayer as the snow continues to fall.

I share this snow-prayer in community with L.L. Barkat to celebrate On, In, and Around Mondays.

 

Monday is gratitude day too (isn’t every day?). I join with Ann in a recognition of some (there are far too many to list) of this week’s blessings:

**Winter white

**Cousins

**The clothes we wear—such a gift to wrap this temple in these prayer lines

**Christmas dinner at home…welcoming the whole family here

 

**Boys who still wake early on Christmas morning—lumber in sleepy to mom and dad’s bed before first morning’s light

**Abundant, crazy love

**The Christ child in the manger 

**Wandering wise men

**The last candle lit on our Advent Wreath--the red one.

**Endless gifts. Oh, yes. Endless.

Almost...

Silver sleeps on nearby hills and all the earth inhales--waiting still. We have almost arrived. These past days of feasting with friends, singing songs of angels and snow, the scripture readings, and all the making merry…they have done this task of preparing hearts.

We stand on tiptoe, craning neck, jockeying for our turn to peek into the manger.

Have you seen the Christ child?

So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger. When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them. But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart. The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things they had heard and seen, which were just as they had been told. (Luke 2:16-20, NIV)

Have you seen him?

Now there was a man in Jerusalem called Simeon, who was righteous and devout. He was waiting for the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was upon him…Moved by the Spirit, he went into the temple courts. When the parents brought in the child Jesus…Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying, “Sovereign Lord, as you have promised, you now dismiss your servant in peace. For my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the sight of all people, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.” (Luke 2: 25-32, NIV)

When you gaze upon him, when you see him…what happens in your heart?

There was also a prophetess, Anna, the daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Asher. She was very old…She never left the temple but worshiped night and day, fasting and praying. Coming up to them at that very moment, she gave thanks to God and spoke about the child to all who were looking forward to the redemption of Jerusalem. (Luke 2: 36-38, NIV)

They hurried and praised.
He took the babe in his arms and praised.
She gave thanks and spoke about the child to all…

How do I greet the Christ child?

Each Christmas season I stare long into the manger and I ask, how does the truth of this story change ME? How do I greet the child, this swaddled bundle, arms flailing and perfect toes peeking out from bands of tattered cloth?

I have seen the Christ.

I have gazed upon him in the manger—seen the pink flush over the brown of his baby skin. I have held his hand in the desert…felt the comfort of his strong arms. I have gazed upon the cross—grieved the cost of my sin and rejoiced at his willing sacrifice. I know he lives still yet.

He changes me.

Like the shepherds, he fills me with joy. With Simeon, I am ready…after touching him—and he touching me—I can be in peace with whatever is to come. And like Anna, I must tell…I must share this amazing, incredible story of redemption.

When I let the truth of this story permeate the depths of my marrow—when his person dwells in my every breath…the manger compels. He is Emmanuel. He is God With Us.

How do you greet the Christ child?

Merry Christmas Eve, Beloveds. As you prepare to peek into the manger, may you feel the joy of the shepherds, the peace of Simeon, and the wonder of the prophetess.

Penny-less

We called her Penny because we said she was found like a lucky one--wandering the streets in the middle of traffic...we couldn’t believe someone wasn’t missing her. We tried to find her home to no avail, so she became ours—only temporarily. That’s how it works when you give a foster home—to a dog, or a child, or even a snail. It’s known from the start that this is just a stopover.

She won our hearts with her quiet faith in our goodness—with her sweet bovine face.

I set the alarm for 3:30 a.m. on Tuesday so I could get up and watch part of the lunar eclipse. But the milky sky hid it from my eyes. So I stared, for a time, at that chalky veil—wondered what was behind it. Penny woke up with me and her joy at walking in the night snow made my spirit forget what I was missing. If only I didn’t have to work tomorrow, I told her. Then you and I would stay up all night and really enjoy this romp.

She was my shadow.

Tonight we drove 45 minutes to meet her new family and they were quite lovely and she seemed fine—if not a little overwhelmed. When we drove away, I tried not to look at that silver Toyota Highlander—to strain for her sweet face in the window. When we reached the first stop light, there was a man on the side of the road with a woman in a wheelchair. He was holding a sign. The rain was icy and coming harder. I told Teddy to get some money from my wallet. We pulled over and handed him a few dollars and the silver Highlander just kept going. When we got on the interstate, Jeffrey cried for twenty five minutes and I wonder if I'm breeding attachment disorder in my children. We were stuck in rush hour traffic through Charleston and it was dark and the rain coming down struck the windshield in slushy drops. A huge flock of Grackles flew overhead and landed in two trees right beside the freeway. Jeffrey stopped crying and sang us a version of the 12 Days of Christmas that he had written at school today. When he stopped he said, I can't wait to meet our next foster dog. I know he is remembering the conversation we had when Argus went to his new home. You can't be afraid to love, I told him, just because you are afraid of getting hurt.

It's about more than the dog, though, isn't loving one of God's creatures with the whole heart enough? These boys have learned about loss from these creatures. They've learned about grieving and responsibility and loving fully. 

A promise is a promise, I thought, heart in my throat.

And as we pulled into our drive I stopped and texted my husband.


Penny is in good hands. And we’re going to be OK.

Color My Christmas

I am a colored lights sort of girl.

Sure, the tree inside is all twinkly white, but outside? Joy explodes in color. We started it in protest to the all the stodgy neighborhood rules we have here in the burbs. Seems like my sweet neighbors think that colored lights reflect a lower state of mind. They have their whites all evenly spaced and proportionately distributed, strung over bushes and carefully manicured trees the day after Thanksgiving. Spotlights are strategically placed to highlight the wreath on the door, laden with red berries and gold balls. I must admit, I feel a sense of calm when I come upon these lights at night.

But mine? A sudden burst of joy.

My life is not neat. And neither is my Christmas.

But it is jam-packed with messy joy.

A Merry, colorful, joy-filled Christmas to you all!

We, the Beneficiaries

Heavy white hushes the hum of living. Footfalls sink silently into deep and breath becomes vapor. The heavens, a mirror, and my reflection lost in falling bits of pallid sky. The earth has been given a new robe, and we--the beneficiaries.

Yesterday, it all worked against me.

Yesterday, still is in my mind. There is the snow-buried car. The slow-moving traffic. The hour it takes to drive twenty-five miles to and from work. The patients with their faces pressed against the glass. The new one who broke my heart. Yes, she has the voice of an angel. And the snow keeps falling, falling.

Looks like you’re staying here with us tonight.

The patients joke and tease. We laugh and watch accumulation grow deep from within the warm walls of the hospital. I leave a little early, to the envy of the others. Ah, the joys of being a consultant with no benefits. I help a dear lady dig her car out in the lot and she tells me that she’s heard the interstate is impassable around Cross Lanes.

I make my way west and head to the boulevard. I want to escape the big trucks and ruts of slushy snow that keep pulling me into their clutches.  I drive along the river. That glassy womb holds flows of ice and small sternwheelers are docked at her edge. I imagine the moon in her belly, giving this iridescent light, pulling the sky into her depths.

Yesterday brought this today. Today, there is quiet. Peace.

I have promised the boys we will go sledding some time today. I see the light of Christmas shine on their sleepy faces. This coming week we will give Penny to her new home and I try not to cry when I think about it. I watch the diamonds that are hidden in the snow. The trees are heavy-laden and wear lace shawls. There is no sound but a quiet dripping.

Heavy white hushes the sound of the living. But there is this—this whisper of creation. The earth has been given a new robe and we, the beneficiaries.

Bended Tree: Poem

bended tree—

with twiggy fingers

trailing along crust

of snow…can you

bear the weight? lacy

tendrils of frost nip

at your ankles and

this heavy wreath of

crystalline drips

from your crown. How

do you stand winter’s

icy blast--folded under

so? your aged limbs,

a scroll, creased in upon

bowed body and tied

down. do you pray?

do you stare directly

into the sun--this

divagating philter in

which you beek? await

the liberating thaw…

then you will arch your

back in piquant awakening

and reach once more

for brumal skies.

This poem is in honor of One Shot Wednesday over at One Stop Poetry...and the recent snows we have received, of course. Head over to One Stop for some more verse--it will warm you up inside!

Scenes from a Walk

The girls are posting about "brumous", which Kelly says "basically means blurry or capturing the essence of something in blur". These are some scenes from our snow frolic yesterday. You'll recognize the last one (my favorite) from yesterday's post. I was trying to capture the movement of the boys and the dogs--it was such a fun little romp (if not chilly). If you'd like to play along, learn more about the project at 3 from here & there.

A Hijacking, of Sorts

The peaceful Monday morning ritual is hijacked by snow. No school. My youngest awakens midway through my morning readings, thumps down the stairs to stare out the French door windows.

Is there a delay? Or is it canceled?

I think about toying with him a bit, telling a white lie and then reeling him in. But we have enough white today, so I just tell him flat out and his brother spills down the stairs on top of him, having heard the news through his bedroom door.

He is smiling.

I am too.

The dogs are trundled with me on the couch, having tainted that clean blanket of white with their paw prints (and other stuff) early. It’s hard to get warm after wind and blowing snow, so they crawl up against me as close as they can get—burrow under the fleece throws littered across the couch.

The boys need feeding and I resign myself to it—that what usually takes me an hour will take two with them in tow. I’m not complaining, just being realistic when I make a suggestion—tongue in cheek.

Why don’t you guys make me a big breakfast for a change?

Then a miracle happens. They do.

Teddy makes the bacon and sausage, Jeffrey scrambles some eggs. My coffee is already poured and I am seated at the table before I can say, “What-how?”

I am tickled and amazed and am only stopped from passing out by the knowledge that it is the feeling of good fortune at a day off that fills them with such good will.

Isn’t it?

Jeffrey hovers over my dining experience.

How are those eggs? He asks.

Why, they’re just perfect, honey, I say, flabbergasted.

He leans down and kisses me on the cheek and I feel like a princess in my snowflake pajamas—I raise my pinky as I sip my coffee.

They join me for the remnants of the feast and we dine on food and the surprise of a leisurely morning. I could get used to this.

The white stuff calls, despite wind chill factor in the teens and blowing gusts of snow. We dress Penny in one of Lucy’s old sweaters and Jeffrey fastens the infamous “pot holder” around Lucy’s midsection. We are set to go.

It’s a fast trot down to the bridge. Mr. and Mrs. Duck are enjoying a leisurely morning too. 

Until Penny arrives on the scene, that is. 

A red-tailed hawk swoops overhead, disappearing into the trees just over the railroad tracks. A train hums in the distance and rattles closer until the noise envelopes us and passes by in a flash. The old coal cars are painted in graffiti, the boxy things whisper stories of days gone by.

Penny loves the snow. 

She frolics and plays, chases snowballs. But Lucy Mae is freezing. Jeffrey picks her up to carry her home. 

The snow whirls around us and we run, making tracks through the pristine, singing heartsongs about hot chocolate and warm fleece throws. 

The peaceful Monday morning ritual was hijacked today. And I’m so glad.

Gaudete! (Rejoice!)

In church this morning we lit the candle of joy. The faithful have arrived at Gaudete Sunday in the Catholic tradition—the Sunday of rejoicing. We rejoice because our preparation is half over—we have arrived at the midway point in our Advent journey. We rejoice because we draw ever nearer to the promise the angel of the Lord made on that hallowed night.

…Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.

Great joy. As we tend this circlet of light, this is what we await.

In the olden days, the pre-Christian German tribes lit candles as a sign of hope during the long, cold days of winter. These ancient peoples prayed to the god of light to “turn the wheel of the earth” back toward the warming light of the sun.

They did not know who he was. But we do. We have this: good news of great joy.

We light these candles, not to turn the wheel of the earth. For it is our hearts that need the turning. The prophet Jeremiah tells us the heart is deceitful above all things…and isn’t it the truth? Don’t our hearts seek all that shimmers, that great noisy bustle, that crazy excess this season offers?

Don’t’ I worry that the gifts I bring won’t be enough?

I sit in this warm house and listen as wind murmurs against the chimney; I watch through the window as it dances with undressed trees, a few frail snowflakes drift through the waltz. The lights on the Christmas tree wink soft and my boys’ voices drift down the stairs to me—they are lost in some game that only brothers understand.

This moment pulses with light—this point on the wreathe journey flickers and then fans into flame. And I know the real joy of Christmas is not in the manger. It is right here—in this moment and in all the moments he has given us in this resurrected life. 

great wheel

turns—tilting,

groping, swinging

me around…

back into warmth

away from darkness

and into hope.

light a candle

in my heart for

every moment,  

until the flames

consume all with

the red blood of

your love.

This prose and verse written to share in the HighCalling's community writing project, Christmas in Verse.

We love Caleb's The Way of the Light Wreath! We light a candle each evening and read a devotional It helps light a flame for each moment--it helps turn our hearts toward Christ. together.

Thank you to the Catholic resource center for teaching me more about the tradition of the Advent wreath (we Presbyterians are generally shy about these things) and to Deidra for reminding me how to wait in joy.