I wrote this poem in 2018, imagining the moment when Mary, the mother of Christ, arrived and baby John leapt for joy in his mother’s belly. I wrote …The Hope of Advent
"What will come of him, This child who holds my hand in a crowd? The prophets foretold much suffering. Is it wrong that I long to pray for you to change your mind?"
"He opens up the skies with blazing light, declaring He has come and we have a choice."
In the quiet I can almost hear the angel interrupting the world. Do you not know? Have you not heard? He is coming, he has come, he is here. And I feel him now, that deep and abiding peace he brings. Though so much demands my attention, in this moment my frantic heart slows and I settle in to the big comfy chair as I read of the God who intervened. Out of that long-dead stump that had been cut down and left to rot, a shoot of life grew and grows. A shoot that will be an arrow piercing the heart of the accuser, pushing back against hell’s darkness to bring at last the light of salvation.
I wrote this poem in 2018, imagining the moment when Mary, the mother of Christ, arrived and baby John leapt for joy in his mother's belly. I wrote it long before anyone had ever heard of Covid-19. The world was already in pain, though, grieving death and injustice on the streets and in the courts...