Advent Stories and Midwinter Poems

It has been a week-end of tough health news, not mine or my family members, but close friends and their family members.  I've been thinking about the holidays, about getting tough health news, or any tough news, during the holidays.

I've been thinking about Advent, and how our Advent texts give us a story for any mood we're feeling.  There's the Mary story, perfect for the "Oh dear, what have I done?" moments in life.  There's John the Baptist, perfect for when you're ready to burn it all down, but at the same time, you're not quite ready to walk away.  There's the Elizabeth story for all of us who feel old and past our prime.  And who could forget Elizabeth's husband, whose big mouth and questioning gets him a time out.  For those of us who had dreams that seem to be crumbling, there's Joseph and the dreams that do not die.

All the stories revolve around waiting.  And since all of the stories revolve around waiting, I project changing emotions onto them.  Of course there's nothing in the text that tells us that Mary has any qualms, but it's hard for me to imagine that she never had that moment in the middle of the night where she second guessed herself.  Similarly, it's hard for me to imagine that Elizabeth never said, "I am much too old for this pregnancy gig."  We know that Joseph wrestled with the death of his hopes for a family and thought about his options before the angel appeared in the dream to tell him what to do.

Our Advent texts can be quite a startling juxtaposition with the messages that popular culture and the American consumer economy sends us.  The holiday cheer in commercial places is such a contrast with our Advent texts.  The juxtaposition can be jarring, but most years, I like having options.  I can have a contemplative Advent one day, followed by festive cheer the next, followed by a sorrowing December the next.

These ponderings made me wonder if I have the perfect poem for this mood of mine.  I do not, but I did find one that spoke to me, with this week of strange weather and gloomy political news.  I wrote it long ago, and it has remained unpublished, perhaps because it is such an odd mix of images.

In the Bleak Midwinter


In another climate in a different age,
these clouds would portend snow.
Instead it’s a strange winter thunderstorm
that swoops from the south to pelt
us with weather more suitable for spring.

In this year when winter came early,
two trucks collide to litter
the side street with stuffed
toys. The children complain
that the toys don’t speak.

Someone arranges child-sized
shoes in pairs, ghost feet
heading off into the wilderness
in search of honey or a home.
Installation art or portent?

The full moon keeps its counsel.
Through the centuries, it has watched
over many developments
and led many a slave to freedom,
but it will not interfere directly.

The angels sing their news of good tidings
of great joy, but we cannot hear
them. We can’t see the stars,
much less the rarer sight
of celestial beings who call us blessed.