I’ve stood on a street corner, suitcase in hand,
longing for a clean, safe place to rest my weary head,
Night falling,
Despair calling
But bands of unknown terror didn’t
sieze me nor the birth of a miracle child
await me.
I’ve settled for the night on a hard
fold-out cot in a sterile room filled with
Machines beeping.
Me weeping.
But at least I had sheets and a blanket, not
dirty straw with the earthy smell of animals
around me.
I’ve known despair as I’ve watched every
twitch of the one I love as he battled the pain.
Hope building
Light gilding.
But doctors counseled and guarded and watched
not donkeys and cows with only Joseph to
attend me.
I’ve felt desperate to know the outcome of trouble
How will it all end; does hope remain?
Baby bawling.
Mary calling
out his names—Jesus. Immanuel.
Her whisper, “God with us!”
answers me.
Nothing I’ve ever experienced compares to what Mary must have endured as she gave birth to the Savior of the world in a smelly stable. (tweet this)
But the power of calling out his names remains.
