New parallels

Mother with children, blush of new cheeks, young skin, florid, ripe. Savoring joy in moments like shards of glass left in a broken mirror, reflecting beauty in their brokenness. Handing over mortality and receiving back laughter and a million sensory pleasures. Mother, maybe dying? yet loving, yet joyful.
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Mary, so many Christmas mornings past, Jesus lying before her, young, ripe, beautiful...mortal. The fragrance of burial spices hovering over the toddler, born to die. Handing over mortality and receiving back Divine Son for thirty years of a million sensory pleasures. Mothering Him. Holy child, suffering woman. Pushing back destiny for present joy.


Grandmother savors Christmas moments, revels in joy on the Eve of the Savior's birth. Gives over daughter with heartbreak and lament, tears herself away to praise God in new ways. Lingers in the explosion of exuberance over tiny momentary blessings. Turns willfully away from a soul of suffering to a spirit of thanksgiving.
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Another Mary archetype. Given a child to enjoy, then given an expiration date. Nay, not even a date...just a warning. Born to die. Mary packs the myrrh away, and teaches her child to walk. Enjoys the deepening of His voice as He transforms from boy to man. Tends His wounds from thorns and the bite of the whip. Walks in agony up the rocks of Calvary, anguish and praise coexistent.

Wind-swept field, viewed from my kitchen window, snow blown like waves in the sunshine, frozen in time. My heart feels crystalline, bare, polished, exposed, like the field.
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Christ-ones the world over, century upon century, realizing the breadth of their sacrifice. Swept bare by evil, death, suffering. Glittering in the icy sunlight. Beauty in bareness.

Fruit standing on the dry vine in a winter field, waiting for spring. Soldiers guarding precious stores, waving stiff in the December wind. Stiff like my mind as it unwraps from longed for vision of the future, and reshapes to a new reality.
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my Bible, dead and alive at once, Word of God standing like a dry, seed-covered stalk, waiting for a breath of warmth in my soul.


Father's hand extended, toddler gripping index finger. Her tiny fingernails are white as she holds on tight, walking a new balance beam with which her chubby feet are unfamiliar. Father slows his step to match hers and never lets go. She looks down at the oak of the beam, concentrating on every step. He looks ahead, keeping track of her progress.
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A new beam is underfoot: I think there might be splinters, pain; that it might end before I get a chance to perfect my skill; that I might fall off the side, unsure of my footing. Eyes squeezed shut, I raise a hand tentatively for my Father. Know He sees the end of the beam. I keep looking down, putting one foot after another.