A poem, written by Amy Sawyer, inspired by Luke 2.
By Amy Sawyer
Whose house do you belong to?
What line? Which family? How
far out of Egypt? Traveling from
Jerusalem or Babylon? Or Syria?
God’s scattered people, now is the time
to return to the home of your forefathers
and mothers and be counted.
We ride along to see him carrying her
and her carrying the Godchild,
back to the home of David,
the birthplace of kings. God’s gift
wrapped in a woman’s body.
Mary giving birth could surely hear
the angels yelling, “Do not be afraid”
somewhere deep in her belly.
The dust-laden shepherds hear the news
like Times Square confetti, more brilliant
than all the glitter and sequins in Vegas.
As children, we hold the plastic nativity pieces,
first Mary and Joseph, whose hands are forever
clasped in prayer. The shepherds, arms open,
join the crѐche with a white plastic lamb
or two lying dutiful nearby. We place Jesus
in his Holy Cradle at the center of every scene.
Luke 2, like all God stories, is a story told in verbs.
He issued. They went, belonged, and registered.
She expecting and gave birth.
Then wrapped and placed.
Keeping watch. They appeared,
praising and saying, “Go! Hurry!”
Let’s go and see.
Seen, heard, amazed.
She treasured and pondered.
We glorify and praise.