He brought me out into a broad place;
he rescued me, because he delighted in me.
The season lights us up, for unto us a child
is born and we believe that he will undo all
the broken, sick, divorced and distressed mess
that is ours.
The new theologians tell me it is worthwhile to
cast insults to God, for he is big enough to
shoulder them, they say. This is thing to do–
curse the seasons.
Arkansas has gifted us with a second spring,
the weather having broken and pulled everything
verdant from the grave. There are tender shoots of
garden Kale here.
These seeds didn’t sprout in the late summer,
and I was frustrated by their stubbornness. They
are new purple, now, four arms reaching from my
depleted garden soil.
These are the tenderest shoots I will see this
winter, and I leave them for the deer that will
sniff them out and bless me for mercy, even in
the starving season.
This is the best blessed season, the one with
kale, prayers, and mangers. The one with baby
ornaments, and tidings of comfort and joy. This is
the season of metaphors.