My pastor asked for a Christmas poem, and the last one I wrote started with “Roses are red…” Still, I enjoyed writing this one…
It is the time when Christmas steals your heart, when your soul finds rest,
It is when you know peace and hope and absolutely feel your best.
That special moment when you feel Christmas, when and where will that find you?
When you prop up your tree, play a holiday tune, or when you buy a new shoe, actually two.
Is that Christmas moment waiting among the gifts piled under your tree?
Is it a blender, a sweater, a ring, or maybe some other bling, all new things you get for free.
Will you find it at Christmas parties, among tables heaped with tempting gastric wealth?
You should, you shouldn’t, you could, you couldn’t; it’s the holidays, stop fussing about your health.
Will your Christmas moment be wearing a Rudolph sweater among colleagues most mild?
Or maybe under some mistletoe, daring you to have a go, at someone reported to be wild?
Will your Christmas moment find you at a store, in your car?
At your mom’s house, or in a bar?
Will you spot it in the picture taken in the mall Santa’s lap?
Or will it slip into your dreams during a winter afternoon’s nap?
Will you find it in the bathroom, no you won’t, no matter how long you lock yourself in.
The kids, the laundry, the chaos will all be waiting, and the dog had a whoopsie in the den.
Will your Christmas moment find you in a time of need, maybe when you’ve been left in the lurch?
Or will it be during a Christmas play, a child’s recital or, heaven forbid, during a sermon in a church?
Will it find you on a cold night, at a Nativity scene, under the magical light of the stars?
Perhaps as the sun crests the horizon, traveling the long road home among far too many cars?
Or could our Christmas moment come when we open our eyes to the less fortunate around?
We celebrate this birth and the wonder if brings, it is the religion to which we are bound.
And yet every single day there is born a child, poor in spirit and he has no God to lift it.
The King of Man? He is the king of nothing, and he has the nothing to prove it.
He is typecast and a conundrum, born under our provided canopy of shame,
However, with the son of Man, and with this child, many things are the same.
Illegitimate, poor, ignored, hunted, persecuted, and sometimes killed.
While we obsess with which present our child will be most thrilled.
From such a harsh beginning there is often a tragic end, even though one became our cause to rejoice.
That should be our Christmas moment, when we hear and answer a lost, abandoned or hopeless voice.