The 60-Second Sabbath

Losing the Baby

The seventh day of Christmas,
    and have we already misplaced the baby?

It was your turn to watch him, yes?

Where's that schedule, anyway?
I though a spreadsheet
    would keep us organized;
yes, your turn today,
    while I shopped for New Year's Eve.

Have you looked under the couch?
    the bed? the Christmas tree?
You check the pantry;
    I'll look on the patio.

Wait, wait--I've found him--
    here in a dust-bunnied corner of my heart,
sucking his fingers,
    calm,
watching.

Text and image © 2014 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Christmas Eve, 2014

Tonight
one
baby shall be born;

ten-thousand times ten-thousand
angels shall sing;

ten-thousand times ten-thousand
tears shall be gleaned;

ten-thousand times ten-thousand
dreams shall take wing;

ten-thousand times ten-thousand
years of peace begin.

Text and image © 2014 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

The Eve of Christmas Eve

It seems
every man and his mother
and his brother
and his significant other
is at Safeway with me buying groceries,
what with Christmas two days off.

I have said "excuse me"
and backed up my cart
a dozen times.

In the seasonal aisle,
two small girls, drunk with holiday glam,
stand worshipfully before
a display of patient, boxed princesses and fairies.

Before the rows of Hamburger Helper,
a young, gay couple--
new to the experience of grocering in tandem--
earnestly examine boxes.

In produce,
a middle-aged, straight couple
works the bins silently;
she selects items;
he navigates the cart.

The elderly from the neighborhood
gather only enough for two bags each,
to make it easy to carry back home.

And we all roll through,
smiling and bumping and apologizing,
but feeling something more than we usually do.
We grin more broadly;
we yield more willingly at the intersection
    of deli and dairy;
we make eye contact.

Two days before Christmas
and we drop our shields.
It's a smallish Christmas miracle,
but I'm glad for it.

Text and image © 2014 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Advent Questions

Who am I? Where am I going?

I am a desert wanderer
walking with humankind,
seeking the shelter
of a narrow stall
in a chilly barn
on a fierce winter night.

A lantern glows
in the next stall
where a goat bleats
and a cow exhales steam
and a mother weeps
    (for sadness, for relief)
and a husband's furrowed brow keeps watch
and a newborn burbles and coos.

Who am I? Where am I going?

Tonight I let the questions rest
and sit in straw and dimness
back against rough wood
and listen.

Text and image © 2014 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Advent Unveiled

    "I'll tell you what Advent is all about,
    Charlie Brown..."

a listening
and an interruption

sitting in silence,
arms open,
ready to hold a messy newborn,
which means
ready to embrace grace

letting an inexplicable mystery
replace your squawking, mewling, obnoxious ego

preparation;
surrender

unsettling;
necessary;
joyful

Text and image © 2014 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Advents

It's Advent,
and there are more arrivals
than that of sweet baby Jesus:

the train of memory drops them off,
one by one, as it circles the tree--
    pets and playmates,
    classmates and cousins,
    parents and neighbors,
    siblings and colleagues,
    dreams and regrets,
    loss and healing...
all that I'd love
and misplaced,
back again to visit,
come home,
as the train comes round again,
as the year turns,
as the season slides silently by.

Text and image © 2014 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Related articles

Advent Prayer

Would You?

You don't believe;
    I get that.
But if you could,
    would you?

I can't run a marathon,
    but if I could,
    I would.

I can't sing like Andrea Bocelli,
    but if I could,
    I would.

We share that ache for meaning,
    don't we?

    yearning for depth,
    craving connection,
    desiring amazement...

It would be nice to believe,
    wouldn't it?
Would you,
    if you could?

Text and image © 2014 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Advent Lament II

I want to ring a yuletide bell,
but ev'ry bell's been rung.
I'd like to sing a Christmas song,
but ev'ry song's been sung.

I'd like to give a special gift,
but all good gifts are given.
I'd like to show some eagerness,
but all my drive's been driven.

It seems I've nothing new to bring
to this year's Christmas party--
no gift, no song, no bell, no verve,
no greeting hale and hearty.

    My bell's wrung out.
    The passion's gone.
    I've got no gift.
    I've lost the song.

But then you reassure me
in tones so sweet and still,
that what I simply need to bring's
my weary work and will.

That's all that's really asked of me?
To sit and simply silent be?
To sit beside your glowing tree?
Yes, simply sit and silent be.

Text and image © 2014 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Advent Prayer

Though I don't yet see it,
it is enough to know
that light approaches.

It is enough to know
that you guide my feet through the darkness,
over the cracks and around the broken glass.

I need not see the way forward
to know we shall complete the journey;
it is enough to know.

Text and image © 2014 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Advent Expectation

Honor the season
and the season's young Prince,
who comes to wrap his tiny fingers
around your weary index finger.

He comes to wrap his tiny fingers--
full of trust and innocence and fragility--
around your index finger,
the one with which you point,
the one with which you pull the trigger,
the one that pushes the buttons
    that run your day,
    that ruin the world.

He reaches for that finger,
wraps that finger with his tiny fingers
of trust and innocence and fragility.
He wraps that finger with the potential for healing,
    for trust and innocence and fragility.

Don't pull away.
Please don't pull away.

Text and image © 2014 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.