We had our first cold snap this week--cold enough to turn on the heat lamp for the hens at night--cold enough to lay a frosty ice over all the spiderwebs strewn between twigs, along fences, and between the railings of the porch. Mark and I took a beautiful frosty walk, appreciating changing seasons that turn rain into icy castings suspended, it would seem, on wisps of air and space. I’ve posted pictures on the photo page.
Thursday I met with my classes for the last time for the semester. I always ask what they will remember, partly because the asking reminds them of the road we have traveled, partly because their answers always bless me and remind that words, lessons and ideas that sometimes seems to go unheard have in fact, been absorbed deeply. Every season I share a reading and/or a poem, the reading about choosing joy in spite of the darkness, and the poem an advent poem by John Shea in The Hour of the Unexpected.
Sharon’s Christmas Prayer
She was five,
sure of the facts,
and recited them
with slow solemnity
convinced every word
was revelation.
She said
they were so poor
they had only peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
to eat
and they went a long way from home
without getting lost. The lady rode
a donkey, the man walked, and the baby
was inside the lady.
They had to stay in a stable
with an ox and an ass (hee-hee)
but the Three Rich Men found them
because a star lited the roof.
Shepherds came and you could
pet the sheep but not feed them.
Then the baby was borned.
And do you know who he was?
Her quarter eyes inflated
to silver dollars.
The baby was God.
And she jumped in the air
whirled around, dove into th sofa
and buried her head under the cushion
which is the only proper response
to the Good News of the Incarnation.
