We have just entered the season of Advent, a season of hope, and I have just finished the church newsletter for next month. There are a number of pieces on hope. Hope for a new world, hope for a better life, hope in Christ. Hope takes on many different forms in our world today.
What did hope look like at the beginning? I keep thinking of Mary as the beginning of all this hope. Her attitude and willingness to be a part of God's plan is very striking. As I was contemplating Mary I came across a poet that highlights Mary's joy and hope in her son. A bit of wonder that any parent can relate to. Enjoy the poem!
Mary at the Nativity
The angel said there would be no end
to his kingdom. So for three hundred days
I carried rivers and cedars and mountains.
Stars spilled in my belly when he turned.
Now I can't stop touching his hands,
the pink pebbles of his knuckles,
the soft wrinkle of his flesh
between his forefinger and thumb.
I rub his fingernails as we drift
in and out of sleep. They are small
and smooth, like almond petals.
Forever, I will need nothing but these.
But all night, the visitors crowd
around us. I press his palms to my lips
in silence. They look down in anticipation,
as if they expect him
to spill coins from his hands
or raise a gold scepter
and turn swine into angels.
Isn't this wonder enough
that yesterday he was inside me,
and how he nuzzles next to my heart?
That he wraps his hand around
my finger and holds on?
-Tania Runyan
What did hope look like at the beginning? I keep thinking of Mary as the beginning of all this hope. Her attitude and willingness to be a part of God's plan is very striking. As I was contemplating Mary I came across a poet that highlights Mary's joy and hope in her son. A bit of wonder that any parent can relate to. Enjoy the poem!
Mary at the Nativity
The angel said there would be no end
to his kingdom. So for three hundred days
I carried rivers and cedars and mountains.
Stars spilled in my belly when he turned.
Now I can't stop touching his hands,
the pink pebbles of his knuckles,
the soft wrinkle of his flesh
between his forefinger and thumb.
I rub his fingernails as we drift
in and out of sleep. They are small
and smooth, like almond petals.
Forever, I will need nothing but these.
But all night, the visitors crowd
around us. I press his palms to my lips
in silence. They look down in anticipation,
as if they expect him
to spill coins from his hands
or raise a gold scepter
and turn swine into angels.
Isn't this wonder enough
that yesterday he was inside me,
and how he nuzzles next to my heart?
That he wraps his hand around
my finger and holds on?
-Tania Runyan
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