Imagine the manger
is not faraway or long ago
but that little rough, cold, abandoned place
inside you,
the place of pleading, the basement of dread,
the solitary confinement of shame,
the night of unknown longings,
the winter of hopes paused,
the collapsing floor of doubt,
or the ice cave of grief, of loneliness.
Will you still sit by the manger
and wait, singing?
Or imagine the manger is not yours at all,
but in a refugee camp,
or the spongy floor of a hoarder’s double-wide,
or the room of a trans kid trying to figure it all out,
or the prison cells of women who tried
to stop men from killing them.
Imagine it’s not for you, unless
you’re more desperate than you think.
Will you still sit by the manger
and wait, singing with joy?
What if the manger is not yours but in the shed
of the skinheads who trouble you,
the gang members who know no other way.
Will you sit and wait, and sing sweetly?
If so, sing tenderly. If not, surely
it is for you he comes.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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