Christmas Eve/Day

the bothy

every room will be blazing with
                              light,
      so i will have no trouble
           finding the place
   when i arrive, or so i
                imagine:
      the table covered in fine
                                lace,
                   heirloom china
        and mirrored silver at each
                     place
          with the feast's aroma
             drifting in from the kitchen;
   my feather bed will manger
                my weary body while
     silks sheets swaddle me to sleep
                   after a relaxing soak
         in the jet-streamed tub.

but

         what if it is
just a box built out of
               river rocks,
   the door wind-weathered
                   and water-buckled,
      refusing to stay shut
          as if expecting more folks;
a rough-hewn shelf
         in one of the corners
    holds a clay pitcher brimmed
            with cool clear water,
      a hand-drawn map to the spring
                next to it;
wood has been laid
                     in the fireplace,
          ready to be brought to
                             life;
a stone shelf is all that keeps
         one's body from the ground,
    just wide and long enough
             for a rough blanket,
      a candle and matches
                  where the pillow would be;
           and there's a shovel
                by the door for taking care
                     of the necessaries;

it seemed perfect for
                                       you
       when you arrived,

didn't it?

© 2011  Thom M. Shuman

i don't have time

bone-weary from errands

i don't have time to listen
   to my children singing in the tub,
   to my spouse quietly fixing dinner,
   to the angel whispering in my ear;

exhausted from the mall expeditions

i don't have time to wait
   to find hope suffed in my mailbox,
   to see you walking with me in the snow,
      for you to fill my emptiness;

spending the whole weekend decorating

i don't have time
   to greet a neighbor with a smile
      and not a mumble,
   to scrape the ice off my heart
      so you won't slip and fall,
   to be rocked gently
      in the cradle of your love.

         but
here i am,
     Lord,
   hoping you have
        time
for me.

(c) 2011 Thom M. Shuman

eusebia (2nd Peter 3:8-15a)

it's tempting to think
that morality
   is about pointing one's
               finger at others,
      showing them the
         errors they have made,
                  but it's really about
    crooking your finger
    to invite the least
          into your home,
              tracing words in a
                    book, so a little
                one can learn,
        testing the wind
           so you know where
                Spirit wants you to
                          go;

it's simple to act as if
           piety
    allows you to walk around
    with your nose up in the air,
                but you need to stick
                   your nose in other
                people's problems,
      so you can help solve them,
          you need to smell the
                    ordure of injustice
             so you can help clean it
                      up,
                you want to lean down
         and rub noses with a little
                          kid
           and be filled with laughter;

it's easy to develop
the attitude that
   it is all about my journey,
      of my personal relationship
                                 with the divine,
         of what has been done for
                                           me . . .
but faith
        is God-ward,
             and them-ward
   before it's ever
       me-ward.

© 2011  Thom M. Shuman

eusebia is the Greek word translated 'godliness' in 2nd Peter 3:11