Below is the poem Tom Llewellyn wrote and shared as part of our Christmas Eve worship
by Tom Llewellyn
Jesus came once already without
any nonsense. He came the way babies
always come, with labor pains
and amniotic fluid and um-
bilical cords, to teach us the clearest
of lessons: that miracles sound like crying
But still we wait for God to come back
at the fifty yard line of the Super
Bowl. We long for hubbub, for fanfare,
for a little nonsense. No crying babies,
thank you very much. A king, if you please.
And while we wait for angels to block out
the stars with their spread wings, we forget
to tilt our heads back and see the stars
themselves. Orion is up there right now,
twinkling behind the clouds. We wait
for God to speak His secrets out loud
instead of listening to the sound
the Nisqually River makes when the spring
sun melts the glacier ice. We wait
for wise men to tell us the how and the why
while a brown-haired five-year-old is sliding
down the entryway stairs on a cardboard
box. We fall and skin a knee.
Two weeks later, new skin grows back
all on its own, while we wait for the lame
beggar to walk again, because
then we would believe.
Miracles would make the waiting easier.
Would it help if food grew on trees?
Would it help if broken bones
stitched themselves back together?
Would it help if we could harness
the power of lightning with the flick of a switch?
The miracles somehow cease to amaze us
when they occur every Tuesday,
when apples fill our bellies, When
the filaments glow inside a Sylvania light bulb.
We wait for God to come in glory
while dew covers a spider web
and shines like diamonds.