White lily sepalled in blue linen, the moon and stars swaddled by sky, you sing to us of innocence and grace, of fierce obedience and the greatest “Yes,” ever given. May it be as you have said. Let the lowly come crowding in, hailing your sweet fragrance, and the rich and mighty leave with nothing. First holy host, round and glowing, we await the birthing of God’s son from you, even as we wait upon our own mustard seeds of faith to grow to fullness. May you always be wrapped in the majestic colour of lapis lazuli that adorns the throne room floor, and be fitted as the Queen of Heaven.
Text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt Composite art “Mary and Joseph” by R R Wyatt © used with permission.
Glistering parade of gaudy gold fit only for fools like me, who care simply to see the sparkles as the worth. The light and its source are where the treasure lies, not in who reflects it in the softest yellow, locked in a dark Fort oblivious to knocks.
Photo and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017
I wish one and all a very Merry Christmas! Today you might like to read my post on Godspace, called “A Glimpse of Glory” https://godspace-msa.com/2016/12/25/a-glimpse-of-glory/ I’ll be back in the New Year. God bless us, every one.
love Keren x
Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign: the virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and will call him Immanuel. (Isaiah 7:14 NIVUK)
‘The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel’ (which means ‘God with us’). (Matthew 1:23 NIVUK)
The tremulous glow of a new and ancient holiness emanates from a tightly swaddled package, lain in animal fodder. His mother is dumbstruck by obedient love, of the same kind that will keep him one day bound to a painful end. For what use are words in the presence of God incarnate brought forth from your own body?
Instead he speaks for us, against the accusers and the poisoned gossips. Clear and bright the telling, silencing them as he will later silence the self-righteous scribes with carefully chosen words scratched in sand. The mortifying that they, that we, want to perform, holding the stones in our sweaty hands, angered at the shadow of a splinter caught in the corner of our vision, sticking out of the plank in our own eye.
No, there is no room for our words at the inn, and here in the stable beyond is where it will come to fruition, this saying yes to the indwelling of God’s love, as all of us must do if we are to follow the star, and end sitting empty and speechless in wonder on the straw.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015
The ever jingling bells only stop when we do, falling quiet as a disciplined choir at rest, waiting dutifully for the next note of the troika, the baton and the whip raised and ready. But we rest here for a moment, silent in the snow as more drifts down to cover our tracks, like a downpour of feathering grace, wiping out the meandering misdemeanours of our errant rails. And the way ahead, so pure and full of promise, glistening in the Light of the World now to come among us, is calling, beckoning bright and full of Christmas cheer.
Right here, right now in this moment between worlds, the pause before the new beginning crescendos, like a swollen belly breathing deep through the pain, resting on the straw floor of an inn. There is a faint tinkling, the angels inhale, a slight sensation of movement readies us, and so it begins.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015