I am the one who has not rejoiced, always, and again I will say, is not rejoicing.
Hardly ever my gentleness is known, even to me, and not, certainly, to my children. Strangers report to have seen it on Tuesday in the library. I do not confirm this sighting.
But I have catalogued my every worry about everything, my requests made known in the sharp, carping voice on my blog. By supplication and prayer I claim to have been deserted. I say it again, deserted, justly.
And still, some Spirit stays near, alert for the stingiest rejoicing, key ready in his unclenched hand. Unlock, Heart-Guard, my chest’s dark vessel. Empty me of treasured loss. And again, I say, make it emptier, until, for rejoicing, a space larger enough to echo appears.
It was a Thursday morning, and I was preoccupied with writing this article and considering the words of John the Baptist from the passage in Luke 3. John seems so out of place in Advent, I thought to myself. He speaks such harsh words of judgment and repentance when what we truly want to hear is Tiny Tim’s “God bless us everyone” to put us in the Christmas spirit.