How humble for God to become a man.
How tender he was with his mother.
How obedient he was to his father.
How dedicated to his craft and to his prayers.
Divine yet also man,
for most of his life he seemed ordinary.
His cousin, John, didn’t recognize him
as the Messiah, the Lamb of God,
until close to the end.
His brothers didn’t believe he was
who he claimed to be.
But his mother, she always knew.
He was here on Earth
and everywhere at once,
breathing our air,
laughing, losing his footing,
experiencing all the temptations
The Savior we were waiting for
down, where we could touch him,
revealing his love for us.
Still his mother’s child,
his father’s pride,
gentle to all.
Feeling the sword on both shoulders,
first one and then the other,
I am welcomed to this holy war.
The winner already decided
and yet still so many
slip away to darkness,
the temptations of the world.
With my head bowed and eyes closed
the sergeant wraps me
in surcoat and cloak
when something like a wind
breathes into my soul:
“I am your purpose,” it says.
“You’ve already laid down your life for me.
Go. Find others.”
On a morning in deadest winter—the world frozen over and even the hunting animals hiding in warm dens—came a sweet sound that broke the stifling cold. A small voice. A song, coming from a high branch outside my window. I wasn’t sure I’d heard it, so I stopped and listened from the warmth of my bed. The winter sparrow sang again, and then again. And immediately the music took ahead to spring. To a time when tree branches bud and flowers bloom. The world is reborn. Risen from its winter grave and on to glory. The same hand that tends to the lilies in the field and feeds the birds of the air, cares for me. Loves me. Fill me with your Spirit so I can sing my own song. Break this winter day with the voice of life, like the songbird outside my window.