Christmas lights up and on
the end of November
as if we’ve had the
Advent ultrasound.
We know the sex,
his name. We call
the baby while still
in the womb of waiting.
I long for sparse nights
dark with the unknown
disturbing what I think
I know.
Have we lost our
capacity for Christmas
surprise? We expect
to see baby Jesus resting
comfortably in the crèche
candles lit, congregation
hushed, humming “Silent Night”.
But have we looked for him
beforehand, with the light
of only a star, in the face of Herod
or magi or angels or poor migrant
shepherds or a cranky woman like
me who wishes
we could wait until after
Solstice to put up the lights
when the days
begin to lengthen again.
We rarely give the darkness
a chance to reveal her
truth which will set us free,
fracturing our safely
constructed lives.
What is Christmas for
if not for this?
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