Birds are flying
in the quiet light
above the altar.
Our tears fall with the sound of rustling wings,
the child sleeps in his mother’s arms,
and an old woman prays for the light to dawn.
For weeks now
we have walked
through our burning cities.
We have stepped carefully
among our shattered shards,
pieced our brokenness together,
and held the birds of despair and rage
captive in the cage of our hearts.
Our pens have bled anguish
onto the page.
Herod will go on
to murder Rachel’s children.
A sword will pierce your heart.
Where is the comfort
promised in the ancient songs?
There is light.
There is breath.
Our pages have taken wing.
The birds fly between rays of sun
shining through sea glass
falling upon the altar.
The mother hands her baby
to the old ones for their blessing.
“Now,” sings the old man,
“now I can depart in peace.”
1. The impossible green of the moss on the bricks
2. Epiphany is coming
3. A Sunday afternoon without the Monday-ness that usually encroaches
4. Taking it one step at a time
5. Holding stories in the bowl of the heart
May we walk in Beauty!