What the Pictures Don't Depict

Most of the Nativity scenes we have come to know,
those pictures of Mary looking rested,
confident and clean,
serene and smiling,
looking comfortable...
They don't depict the weariness,
the immobilizing exhaustion of
hard labor,
nor the
all-consuming effort
it takes
to push a baby out into this world,
nor the blood and
amniotic fluid,
nor the expelled placenta 
that needed to be cleaned up
after the birth.

Those scenes the artists render of
spotless robes and a 
tidy stable (or cave) with cozy light...
They don't depict the manure on the floor,
nor livestock urinating into their bedding,
nor the interior's darkness illumined only
by candle light,
nor the possibility of being stepped on
during and after
giving birth.
Surely there were mice in the straw.
Were there rats?
Did Mary nervously notice 
every sound of scurrying
around her? 
How did she ever sleep?

Of course the baby would be laid 
in the feeding trough.
Where else?
Set up off the floor, the safest
and cleanest spot
available.
Were there cows?
Perhaps they
ambled over
to the manger,
as cows are prone to do,
to sniff, and lick,
and welcome Jesus
as the new baby in their midst.
Did Joseph's role include
keeping
a wary eye on
the attending animals'
curious attention
to his
newly-born son?

This historic birth was
far more miraculous than we,
in our day and age, 
might readily imagine.
Jesus survived.
So did Mary.
And all the detail not depicted
in the artists' renditions
makes Mary 
one of us.

And makes Jesus, whom she bore
by the sweat of her brow,
one of us.
One with us.
Emmanuel.

Hidden Gifts

Today has not been the loveliest of days.
Freezing rain, sleet and slippery slush
coat every visible surface and do not invite
the lingering contemplation of 
surrounding fields.
And yet...
How could I not notice the sheen
on the twigs,

their interlacing design
and the beauty so often obscured
by the humdrum everyday.

And by what I expect to see.

Christmas cactuses don't look like much

when they aren't blooming,
(which is most of the year.)
Just a tangle of dull green, toothed
fleshy leaves, almost not
worth a second glance.
And yet...
during this darkling season of cold,
of shorter days and longer nights 
they suddenly surprise
with buds and blooms.

Patience comes hard in these bleak days
of grays and browns.
And yet...
there lurks, 
or beckons,
the always-present invitation towards 

the goodness that was poured into
the world at its beginning. 

And into all of us
at ours.

Detritus

Castoffs,
no longer wanted, 
abandoned, discarded,
littering the forest floor. 
One can step on them without
even noticing,
without valuing, or honoring,
or savoring
their former lives.
Bits of shell and seeds, an acorn cap, 
dried leaves and withering berries,
a hodgepodge of evidence
that life and purpose thrived here,
a season ago.

Now, 
amid what was scattered,
a promise of 
nothing wasted. 
The makings of a whole new woodland
lie dormant,
resting, waiting 
to sprout and grow.
New from the old,
refashioned from the 
detritus of what was, 
once upon a time.