His face
is what they searched for,
the wise men and the shepherds,
the fishermen and the tax-collectors.
And long ago,
your family
also painted
Icons of Jesus,
but still we fail to see his face,
the face that will carry us
over the sea.

Sister asked for castanets.
I brought a tambourine.
“I was raised in Columbia,” she explained.
“My grandfather was from Spain.
He taught me to play the castanets.”
Together we rehearsed the songs
that would stitch together
the various scenes
of the Christmas pageant.

The innkeepers stood solemnly behind
painted cardboard doors.
Window cut-outs framed their faces
as they explained: “No room at the inn.”
Yet all three of them,
gathered here at the Shelter,
knew what it is to be homeless.
One offered a stable.

Some sheep stood on two legs,
and some on all fours,
but all clearly recognizable
by paper masks and hilarious bleating.
The shepherds were a bit tipsy,
most likely not too dissimilar
from the shepherds on that holy night.
The drummer boy passed out
just before the play started,
face down on the sidewalk,
but Sister revived him
with a concoction of milk and egg.
He carried and played the brilliant blue
cardboard drum that he had made.

Sister asked for castanets.
I brought a tambourine.
“Mary will stand here and hold baby Jesus
while we sing the Magnificat.
Do you know the tune?” she asked
as she hummed. I did not know the tune.
“Mary will dance as we sing,” she said.
Her hands cradled castanets we could not see.
Then she kicked up her heels and danced.

Jesus stands
for his baptism,
his right hand
resting on his chest.
Had Mary raised
her hand
heartward,
a Child would rest
here on her arm
out of harm’s way,
held close,
Child’s ear cupped
against her breast,
holding all time
in one moment’s frame.
In frameless icon,
I seek Jesus’ hand.
Hold me close.
Hail heaven’s heartbeat:
Hug your broken child,
bathed in the light of baptism.
Behold, a son.

If we should be like him,
then we must be like her,
Mary, who like a heifer,
lay in the straw
to give birth.

Mary, looking at Jesus,
saw her own image
reflected in his eyes.
And this is what he asks of us –
that in looking at others,
we see ourselves,
and Him.

Jesus, when you were born,
your mother Mary
wrapped you in swaddling cloths
from head to toe
lest your kicking feet
brush too hard against the wooden manger
and lodge a splinter in your foot.
Already her heart suspected
the weight of the Cross
and the price of the Resurrection.

It is not painted halos
that radiate grace—
Mary’s blood on the straw,
Joseph, carpenter turned midwife.

The room smelled of manure,
not evergreen and pine,
and even the barn animals
snorted and stomped their feet,
indifferent to his birth.

“He has lifted up the humble,”
Mary had sung to the angel.
yet now she lay in the straw,
like a heifer, to give birth.

Yet Mary loved this child
more dearly than life
and even had he been
Joseph’s offspring,
she would have loved him
just as much.

But as the child grew
this would become Mary’s burden
and Mary’s thorn,
that even on the Cross,
her son loved her no more, no less,
than he loved any other woman.

I doubted like Thomas as I wandered the road.
I could not see His face for my eyes were closed.
When Thomas saw His wounds, he came to believe:
Christ born in a stable, God’s love here conceived.

The ox and the shepherd worship in humble stall
To gaze on his meekness, on his love for us all
The angels in heaven their good news announce:
Christ the Savior is born here in Bethlehem town.

Oh, grant me the favor all evil to shun,
To serve him like Mary who nursed God’s own son,
With Mary and Martha to sit at his feet,
And with myrrh to anoint him like Mary Magdalene.

With shepherds and vagabonds, let us stand round his crib.
He welcomes the stranger for on this earth he lived
The life of an outcast, no pillow for his head,
But a stable his birthplace and straw for his bed.

The Romans carved wings
where no wings were,
adorning motionless statues
with heavy wings.
Had I wings to oar
through wild blue,
I would row through space
like a ship parting waves.
Wings would sweep
through space’s infinitude
marking time, a metronome
to stir heaven’s vault.
I would yield, suspended,
to the swing of the wind:
My aerie, you.

Halo of thorns
Draws flame,
Quickens fire—
For this He came.

Star’s breath
Inspires song;
Far-flung hosts
Hail God’s Son.

Calloused hands,
Rhythm of shepherds’
Crooks on cobbled
Streets: shards

Of the uncreated light.
Mary reflects on
Her Son’s life,
Birth to resurrection.

 

Now we enter
a season of reversals.
The last remaining leaves
of the honeysuckle bush
are ornamented in frost.
Jagged white fuzz
outlines brown oval-shaped pendants.
Even the pinon and juniper
exchange their evergreen status
for cloaks of white.
Yet as the cold deepens,
light lengthens,
dawn by dawn,
night by night.
The sun enters
its own reversal,
warming the earth,
despite snow and frost,
anticipating spring’s thaw.