anhelo (Advent 1-C)

in the
         chair
   idly leafing through
   one more well-thumbed
            magazine,
      the tube slowly dripping
      that poison which is
         supposed to cure
               him, he quietly
           craves a human
   touch;

at the deli counter,
      the lengthening list
          of this tray,
             that cheese,
      those particular crackers
                 all
   turning her eyes to
             glaze,
        she hungers
               to find the aisle
    stocked with
           solitude;

their slow shuffle
         matching the small
         steps of their children
   as they move along the
      slowly whining conga line
             of fidgeters
         getting closer to
               The Lap,
      the parents whisper a hope
           that this is the
                 year
   we look in the manger
              and see
         the baby
      shawled in innocence,
                   not

a tiny santa.

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman

shiloh (1 Samuel 1:4-20; 2:1-10)

you wait

          at shiloh,
where we can bring
    our brokenness
                   and,
    with the pebbles
       formed from our tears,
    the rocks chiseled
       from our hardened
                          hearts,
    the stones others
        have cast at us,
                 we build a
            cairn
to mark this place
   as holy ground;

          at shiloh,
where our cries
             are
                   plainted
    with the mother
    who cannot afford
          medicine for her
                      child,
    with the teenager
    whose heart bleeds
                      first love,
    with the family
    whose future has been
                      foreclosed,
       we whisper
             our aching loneliness
    to the listening
                              One;

          at shiloh,
where our worst
    is enveloped by your
                          best,
   where our emptiness
              is filled
              at your table of
                           grace,
   where our despair
          is transformed by your
                            hope;

          at shiloh,
you wait . . .

© 2012 Thom M. Shuman