Weaving

Weaving

As the Word is woven in the womb,
A tiny bone warp
On which flesh is knitted;
A fragile form where hope is homed in flesh,
Fears forgotten as a new day dawns,
This child is born into the world.

Many will say with boldness,
With confidence coming from cast iron truth
That unmistakably,
Unquestionably,
He meant this.

But this child grew to be a man,
Not a message.
A lover, a sharer,
Laughter flowing like living water.
Food fondly shared.
Time gladly given.
Relational grace never reducible
to a soundbite shouted with surety.
His questions,
Invitation to inhabit and be,
Infiltrate the quiet corners of our existence.
He sits in the empty chair
And welcomes us home.

And now, I sit at the loom.
Let laughter and love be my threads,
Grace and peace pattern
The fragile fabric I form.
Let this cloth clothe the naked.
Let it be a Tablecloth Spread for my foes.
Let it be a blanket offered to
The rejected, the neglected.
Let it be the shroud that carries me home.