The moonlight sways and cradles the land,
While voices mumble and fall to the dirt,
"There is no room here."

Her back bends, her face practically touching the fur she still sits on,
The donkey,
He walks on.
Carrying the woman with the sacred womb,

The man
He rushes from door to door,
Eye's pleading, but brave.
Until finally the dust settles
And one man points to the space that he has

For them.
There was one place.

Straw coated in mud,
Windows of splintering wood,
This ground, these walls, nothing special
until
This night.

We think we are better than beasts,
cows
sheep
pigs
         But yet
They are the ones to make room
As a young mother falls to her knees
panting and wailing
Trembling with pain
Not knowing yet that her son would be taken from this world
with tremendous pain.

She cries, she pushes-
She is scared.
But the man holds her tight,
Somehow
They don't feel alone.

As a piercing diamond illuminates the sky
It's white light falling onto them like silver drapes

And her pain is soothed somehow
melting into the
Silent night
Holy night.

And then
The air around them bows
and folds around the stable.
The blood that runs through her veins now spills onto the ground
This blood runs through His veins as the Christ child is born
The very blood he will one day shed to save
even those
Who have no room.

He now cries out into the night
as He takes His first breath of life
on this earth.
This earth covered in hay and dirt and blood.

The savior of all men only knows one thing in this moment
His mother.

And He is wrapped in swaddling clothes.
They speak of the manger he lays in
but the only manger this night
are the arms of mother.

Her blood is His blood.
His blood.
So she will suffer through it all
with him.

But this night now rests.
Joseph
Mary
Jesus.

A moment and story
with so many details unknown.
Too sacred
for us.

But every year we remember
We light candles
and stare into the night sky.
For the one blessed night that changed
                     Everything.

 For this one night
Star light wraps around the skies
And heaven bows down
To kiss the earth good night
For this one night
Hope is born

And there is peace.

The moon hung high, full to its brim with milk, the brightness ironing out any starry seams in the sky. She let out a huge reserve of air from deep within her lungs as she sat down, the sigh landing on the chair before she did, like a cushion. She began to rock back and forth, her thoughts swaying along.



She thought back to that afternoon. Her son's teacher had been so upset when she got to the school to pick him up. But Miss Mayfair's intensity was a bit unfair- all Davy did was make some animal noises during her lesson... One oink, a moo or two, who's to say he was remarking on her large rump?

Then there was dinner. She had spilled the macaroni all over the ground. A ground she hadn't cleaned in a week, and the noodles had to be tossed into the waste basket. "Why do you drop everything all the time?" her son had complained. She looked down at her shaking hands and said nothing.

But then again the morning hadn't been the best start to a day. Baby Rose woke up an hour earlier than normal, her dry lips screaming for more milk than was available. She silenced the last of the morning crickets and dashed the remaining cold stars from the sky. 



She sighed again and took out a small block of wood from her apron pocket. She held it tight as she carved out a notch from it's side, just as she did every night. She counted the scars she created on the honey wood, her fingers feeling the rough divots. It had been 43 days. (OR There were 43 days left.)

Glade

I should have known that something bad had happened when I noticed the weeds growing in his garden. His once impeccably clean dirt now had several obnoxious plants sprouting.

 

Weeds never stop to let people live out the end of their love story.

 

A couple afternoons later I was sitting on the drive way with June, chalk in our hands. My neighbor came home and walked over and sat down by us and asked June if he could write his name.

 

GLADE.

 

He is a simple man. He grew up on the street we live on. Him and his wife married young. Once he told us that he had to chase her away from all those other boys. He doesn’t always talk so candidly.

 

But his kind soul is always being shown. Every summer and fall he brings us over food from his massive garden. Squash, beans, cantaloupe, corn, apples, tomatoes. He hardly knew us when he first started to share his harvest. But we soon learned about him that he spends all this time taking care of his old house, yard, and, his wife.

 

I see him leave his house, wearing some plaid shirt, with his wife at the same time everyday. One day I found out where they were going. He takes her to a gym to walk on the treadmill every day ever since she had her heart attack.

We watch a lot of romantic movies and read books about it, but it’s seeing that old white car drive down the road to the gym every day that becomes one of the best love stories I’ve ever seen.

It’s the way he takes his wife’s hand or rubs her leg when she keeps forgetting who we are, even when we told her two minutes ago.

 

It was in his voice as he told me what happened the other day.

 

I just stared down at his name in chalk as he told me. I knew his wife wasn’t in the best health, but why did there have to be a car accident?

 

He spoke like he always does, the same voice he would use to talk about pumpkins, but I could hear past that.

 

Sadness.  

The deepest kind. 

The kind that comes from impending loneness.

 

The car had rolled. She had internal bleeding in her skull. She is sleeping a lot and either she will heal… or not. There is not much else to do.

 

And meanwhile his perfect lawn grows taller, his trimmed bushes get uneven.
And the weeds grow.

The Old Tabernacle

What were our chances of finding an unlocked door? We tried the first one: locked. Second: locked. Third:

            Open.

We pulled the heavy door toward us and breathlessly walked in, leaving the dark winter night behind us.

The wood smelt historic and it moaned with age beneath our steps. It was dark and empty; every sound we made bounced through the tabernacle.

 

We tip toed up the stairwell, passing by thick glass windows that only allowed in a soft amber light from the street lamps outside.

 
Emerging onto the balcony, we took a seat up front in a pew overlooking the absent audience below and the naked stage with only a lone grand piano. I could imagine the echoes of music and lights and candles that now seemed so distant.

Lunar

I woke up right after the first bite had been taken. I was excited to see my first lunar eclipse. As the earth’s shadow devoured the light I realized that my heart was pounding hard and I could feel the pulse in my ears. I was nervous. It was as if God Himself was erasing the moon from His holy canvas. What if He chose not to draw it back again? What would we do without our silver sentinel each night?

And with that- it was gone. A chorus of morning stars rushed the stage as the sky sunk the invisible moon. Somehow I felt apart of the alignment, sandwiched in. From the sun to the earth to me up to the moon.

To Purchase Happiness

"Excuse me."
"Yes."
"How much is that 'Happiness' over there?"
"Oh that?"
"Yes- the deluxe package."
"The 'True' one?"
"Yes, 'True Happiness."
"That one? We only accept sacrifice for that."
"What's the payment plan?"
"That one costs your selfish deeds and desires. Your false ideas of pleasure. Certain leisure and comforts."
"Can I pay with obedience?"
"Indeed, obedience partners with sacrifice."

"What about the 'Pleasures' package?"
"Very expensive."
"What does it cost?"
"Your salvation."
"If it's so expensive then why is it selling out?"

"Because with salvation you can buy now and pay later- where as, with obedience & sacrifice you must pay as you go. People don't seem to mind the debt."

Dear Buck

The sun sets, falling under the waves. Colors shatter and break in the air.

 

Slowly we rock back and forth, the small ship sleepy and calm.

 

On strong wooden planks you hold me and we dance.
 

The stars sit down to watch. The darkest blue turns black. Water becomes sky.

 

We rock, and we rock, back and forth.

 

Peace laps up against the boat.

 

The storms have brought us so far from the land, the clouds ushered us on. They sailed us to a place unknown by any traveler. Our place of rest. Our sea-breeze lullaby.

 

The kind wind hums softly the songs born by her travels-  distant and enchanting. Somehow she has found us. She takes our tale and continues on, telling it to the sea.

 

But we stay on.
 

And we rock and we rock and we rock to sleep.