Magi from the East came to Jerusalem,
asking, “Where is the child
who has been born king of the Jews?
The magi did not find the holy child in Jerusalem,
but among peasants, in a little town like all the towns
they had just passed through.
On my morning walk the icy rain whispered,
the dead leaves under the ice proclaimed,
my breath shone.
What if the divine unveiling awaits you,
the revelation ready to astound you
in every little ordinary thing?
A plant on a windowsill,
a child in the hallway may reveal to you
what words can’t convey.
Not spoken but given,
not a theorem but a presence,
not wisdom but being.
For Jesus it was lilies, and birds,
a stranger’s daughter, muddy Jordan water
and the air above the water.
What if glory hides, poorly disguised,
in a stone, a door, a question,
a word, a look, a silence?
Your heart is already searching,
the world is already holy,
the child is already here.