Respite
I return to my seat after Communion on the the 2nd Sunday of Advent and half-kneel, half sit in the pew.
I imagine that I stumble forward into light and almost drop my baby into the lap of Jesus. Then I sink to the ground beside Jesus' chair and bury my face into the side of His leg. "Help me Jesus," I breathe, "I'm so tired."
Jesus looks down at the baby, touches its little legs gently with His beautiful hands, then smiles and says "Look at this baby that I made, so beautiful and perfect and just for you. Our baby." He or she lies cradled there in the warm folds of Jesus' tunic, stirring and stretching, eyes closed, squeaking that little newborn squeak. I see the baby, and yet, my eyes blur over with tears as I look away. "But Jesus," I beg in distress, "I'm not a good mother. I have nothing to give it." I look up at Him and He looks down at me for a long moment.
Then He lays His hand on my head.
He doesn't say anything, but somehow it is all I need to go on for a little bit longer.
I imagine that I stumble forward into light and almost drop my baby into the lap of Jesus. Then I sink to the ground beside Jesus' chair and bury my face into the side of His leg. "Help me Jesus," I breathe, "I'm so tired."
Jesus looks down at the baby, touches its little legs gently with His beautiful hands, then smiles and says "Look at this baby that I made, so beautiful and perfect and just for you. Our baby." He or she lies cradled there in the warm folds of Jesus' tunic, stirring and stretching, eyes closed, squeaking that little newborn squeak. I see the baby, and yet, my eyes blur over with tears as I look away. "But Jesus," I beg in distress, "I'm not a good mother. I have nothing to give it." I look up at Him and He looks down at me for a long moment.
Then He lays His hand on my head.
He doesn't say anything, but somehow it is all I need to go on for a little bit longer.
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