The house is cozy except when there is a breeze outside. When it rains we have a river in the basement and a beautiful fountain which trickles from above the dining room picture window - soft tears that play a delicate melancholy rhythm on the sill. There are dust bunnies of flokati and cotton balls from nativity craft lambs- small shearlings scattered on the floor, blowing like fluffy-white tumble weeds, leading us to the small Christ child hiding in the corner. We wait for Jesus to come this year as every year, but somehow it is different. Somewhere something got lost or perhaps found. Is it because I believe it? Is it because I only want to believe? Do I wait only to celebrate his birth? Am I no longer impatient for his speedy return? Eager to raise my glass at his table? That cup for which he has been waiting so long to drink? Do I even believe in that table? Do I long too much to stay in this world, with my tv, wii, and children? Many days I wish to run away, but where would I go?Perhaps, I could hide in the outhouse until the season passes and there are no reminders left of all my questions until everyone starts pulling out their bunnies and eggs.
2 comments:
Sorry - I am a bit of a one trick pony - from kid brother Rich
And the coal trucks come a-runnin'
With their bellies full of coal
And their big wheels a-hummin'
Down this road that lies open like the soul of a woman
Who hid the spies who were lookin'
For the land of the milk and the honey
And this road she is a woman
She was made from a rib
Cut from the sides of these mountains
Oh these great sleeping Adams
Who are lonely even here in paradise
Lonely for somebody to kiss them
and I'll sing my song, and I'll sing my song
In the land of my sojourn
And the lady in the harbor
She still holds her torch out
To those huddled masses who are
Yearning for a freedom that still eludes them
The immigrant's children see their brightest dreams shattered
Here on the New Jersey shoreline in the
Greed and the glitter of those high-tech casinos
But some mendicants wander off into a cathedral
And they stoop in the silence
And there their prayers are still whispered
And I'll sing their song, and I'll sing their song
In the land of my sojourn
Nobody tells you when you get born here
How much you'll come to love it
And how you'll never belong here
So I call you my country
And I'll be lonely for my home
And I wish that I could take you there with me
And down the brown brick spine of some dirty blind alley
All those drain pipes are drippin' out the last Sons Of Thunder
While off in the distance the smoke stacks
Were belching back this city's best answer
And the countryside was pocked
With all of those mail pouch posters
Thrown up on the rotting sideboards of
These rundown stables like the one that Christ was born in
When the old world started dying
And the new world started coming on
And I'll sing His song, and I'll sing His song
In the land of my sojourn
In the land of my sojourn
And I will sing His song
In the land of my sojourn
Part of Rich's inspiration
Psalm 137
1 By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept
when we remembered Zion.
2 There on the poplars
we hung our harps,
3 for there our captors asked us for songs,
our tormentors demanded songs of joy;
they said, "Sing us one of the songs of Zion!"
4 How can we sing the songs of the LORD
while in a foreign land?
5 If I forget you, O Jerusalem,
may my right hand forget its skill .
6 May my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth
if I do not remember you,
if I do not consider Jerusalem
my highest joy.
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