Into the Chaos

God's hand dipped into the chaos.  God's hand dipped into the chaos.  God's hand dipped into the chaos.

God's fingers laced through the nothing and gave shape to mountains and poured water on the earth and traced rivers through the land.

God's hand dipped into the chaos.

God chose a girl from the millions and gave her a pure soul and set her on the earth and sent an angel.  She said yes.

And in the middle of the darkest night of the year, God's Son slipped into the chaos from the body of the girl into the waiting hands of the trembling Joseph.  God's Son wrapped in thinnest cloth against the world's night, God's Son warmed by the breath of beasts.  God's Son, so small, sent to fight the world's chaos.

I am here, on my knees, imperfect as I am.  Lord, dip your hand into this chaos.  Dip your hand into this chaos.  Dip your hand into this chaos.  Lace through my wanderings and give shape to knowing and pour truth in my heart and trace virtue on my soul.  Come, Son, into the waiting hands of this trembling me.  I will wrap you up in my thinnest gifts and warm you with my best spirit.  Come, transform me.

The Morning

One of the best things about this little house is the windows.  On the south side of the house, windows line the wall, from the kitchen sink, to two large ones in the dining room, to the full-length windows on the door of the screened-in porch.  The kitchen is on the southeast side of the house, which means it gets every bit of the morning sun.  The living room is on the southwest, so it soaks up the warmth at the end of the day.  Truly, it is the perfect orientation and keeps my days bright.

The mornings feel particularly sweet, especially when my husband is home and relaxed on a Saturday morning, cups of coffee, Pearl playing at our feet.  And now, she babbles away up in her morning "nap," content just to be quiet for awhile, sleeping or not.  So I sit on the red couch, taking a moment to write.

O Morning Star, Dayspring.  You change everything with your presence.  In the dreary winter, we rejoice to see hints of you sifting through the clouds to smile upon us.  Great Light, visit our homes and our hearts, to bind us together in joy and wonder.  We watch the turning of the earth as it settles in closer and closer to the shortest day, only to pivot in that single moment to bring back the light.  Stay with us, Lord, make us watchful.  Make us ready.

The Tiny Babe

I am longing, aching, even in my bones, for You.  The dark closes in tightly, and I gasp for air.  You see, I have a child.  She's spirited and lovely, but she is still so small.  I listen, and I hear what they say.  Where will we be in twenty years?  Decimated by hunger, poverty-stricken, blown to bits?  She does not know these things, but I do.  I carry on my shoulders the fear and the guilt of generations who have failed.  I, too, have failed so many times, sharp-tongued, brazen, imploding, envious, spiteful.

We try and try again, but we end up maybe not in the same place every time but in one just as confounding as the last.

I have learned the heavy lessons of parenthood, anxious that she be healthy and happy and holy.  I lock my door against the terrors of the night and listen to the creaks of the old house with sharp attention.  In my early postpartum days her cry made me weep, not for her or for myself, but for the million innocents whose cries go unanswered, whose hunger is unattended, who cry alone.  I cringe to know that despite the deepest of joys which I know through her, I also know new sadness.  She has, I suppose, made me more human this way.

More human, yes.

And in the night, like the psalmist, I strum my heartstrings and lift my voice to the heavens:  Do you hear me?  Do you see this world?  Do you see how we strike out against one another?  Do you see how tiny she is?  Do you see how human we are?

Yes, yes, I see.  More than seeing, I know.  I dressed myself in your skin, and put your blood in my veins.  Don't you remember?  I, too, was small, so small the angels could scarce see me from the heavens.  I had a mother who feared for me, and a father who swept me away to safety.  I learned pain and grace, the deepest joys and newest sadness.  I abandoned the heavens that you may never again say, "You do not understand."  So abandon yourself to me.


Like a fist unfurling, release the fears of what may come.  Pray for her, but do not worry.  For peace, peace the world cannot I give, I am bringing.  The old world is passing away, you see, for I am making a new heaven and a new earth.  I have come among you, and I alone will satisfy.


Human we are, both You and I.  But God You are, You alone.  Emmanuel, come.