Monday, December 24, 2012

It Doesn't Really Matter

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It doesn't matter if there were three wise men or two or twenty;
what we do know is there were three gifts;
and when they arrived, the family was in a house.
So put the crèche wise guys somewhere in the garage
because it will take about two years till we see them.
It doesn't matter whether Mary rode on a donkey, a camel, or walked;
what we do know is that she and Joseph got to Bethlehem
and ended up in a stable to deliver the Messiah–
a stable that was probably more a cave than a barn.
It doesn't really matter whether it was spring or winter
or whether the angels sang or said their praise.
What I do know is that if I heard an angel saying “Glory to God,”
it would sound like singing to me.
If I can believe in the Great Alexander from one source written hundreds of years later;
and if I can cite Caesar or Plato with confidence, trusting in the select scribes of antiquity,
what I do know is that I have no problem believing eyewitnesses,
writing within decades of what they had seen and heard,
with nothing to gain and lives to lose.
It doesn't really matter if the evangelistic atheists make a mockery of faith,
with their presupposition that miracles don’t happen,
relegating documented historical documents to myth;
what I do know is Christ’s historicity has veracity,
and it is the humble entrance of a heavenly King
that stumbles the wise in their own eyes.
And this is what really matters:
Messiah has come!

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Hope Clings

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Hope clings in the face of barrenness;
hope sings in the face of long, cold days.
Love stirs hope’s yearning
and hangs on through the night
through discouragement
to brilliant day.

It’s Beginning to Look A Lot Like Chocolate!

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Ah, the sweet shop! Thankfully, stealing shots of window chocolate is only warm and fuzzy with no calories.
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Christmas Stealing

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I can’t help myself.
Passion commands my common sense;
and rather uncommonly, I march on
boldly . . .
well, sometimes boldly, sometimes covertly.
A little of this, a little of that–
who would notice, really.
These little mountain shops decked out for Christmas,
so bursting full of Christmas merry,
surely it is not against the law to steal just a few of their pretty souls
and hide them in my little black Canon.
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A Time for Reflection

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Winter’s Sonnet: A Solomon Moment

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Ragged connection, impeded by stain,
unworthy-worn, but willing for the One
to strengthen frail hands and black heart again.
I cry to the Fullness from dry, barren
places, so broken that shards lay bloody
and lifeless, melded together by tears.
Death is a thief, but I think I can see
that some things are much worse; and the fear is
that loss and grief of a sudden absence
will twist what’s left of this weak connection
into a bleak pulse, a long low cadence,
fouling the pained heart’s hope of redemption.
Out of the depths, out of the broken black,
may Mercy find me and carry me back.
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Color Me Christmas

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Why fly when the food is here?
Why fly when adoring fans
tip toe,
photograph, and
I have it good here.
Why fly when . . . what is this cold, white sticky stuff?
I need a roadmap!
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Friday, December 7, 2012

The Blood-red Dance!

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It’s a tenuous dance,
a blood-red dance,
held by a string and a prayerful hope.
Then the wind and a twirl–
The risk of the fall is worth the dance now.
The forever mystery of death calls for joy now.
Why mourn the blood-red clinging,
in this the prelude?
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Monday, December 3, 2012

Simple Rest

Everywhere I listen is sound after sound, claiming my attention.
Everywhere I look is noisy color and pattern, underscoring the rapid pace–
the life of busy busy, of obligation.
And then,
I see you.
Simple, alone,
a dream.
And in this moment, I feel rest.

Life in a Fall–en World


I Am Not Going to Mexico!

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I have food right here–a steady supply. And I have my adoring fan club that I pose for, so why in the world should I exert myself in flying that long trek over the Gulf?
You said snow? What’s that?
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For the Quaking Soul

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Why fly into the storm, tempting fate?
I do all I can to avoid it–to find the peaceful place, the safe place.
But as the clouds foment and winds increase,
you ride the thermals as though it were a carnival ride.
Up, up, and around,
calling all your friends,
thrill-seeking as the blustering storm swirls its danger.
And I wonder.

Would I find peace in the storm if I could ride the thermals?
Is there a sheltering place unseen to the quaking,
right there in the middle of the tumult?

Hmm. I’m hearing the Small Voice:
I ride the thermals;
you need only hang on.