Let it Be

Another Advent Poem

I wrote this poem several years back in response to a request to write one based on a reading from Kris Camealy’s book, Come Lord Jesus: The Weight of Waiting. I’d totally forgotten, but Facebook never forgets and reminded me. The original link is no longer viable.

It had been nine months since my husband was approached about the possibility of moving to Florida for his job. He’d originally turned it down. We thought we’d live out the rest of our lives in Michigan. In fact, I’d insisted the family bury me under the porch of his childhood home where we had lived for the last quarter century. But it turned out to be an offer he couldn’t refuse, and he left me in May of 2016 to oversee home renovations already begun and to prepare the house to sell. I followed him in October, and we lived in a condo and a cottage before finally finding and closing on this house. We were 67 and 69—starting out on a new adventure when most (a lot of?) couples are considering retirement.

Also, we love our neighbors.

Also, the first manger belonged to my mother-in-law. The second is one we brought back from Israel last year.

LET IT BE

I am the handmaid of the Lord

Let it be.

.

It’s been nine months since the seed was first sown.

Nine months of waiting, growing heavy with time.

Nine months of “I don’t want to move.”

.

Nine months of sunrise dawning in incremental stanzas.

Nine months of watching God weave new wonders.

Nine months of watching Him unfold the next chapter.

.

Nine months of finding gold in the gray of worry.

Nine months of syncing my heart’s rhythm with heaven’s pulse.

Nine months of saying goodbye in order to say hello.

.

Yesterday we signed the papers with a hundred blue strokes

and committed to a new story (new to us, known to God)

far away from loved ones,

in an unfamiliar place

with unfamiliar people.

What if they don’t like us?

What if we don’t like them?

There is no power, and the light is fading

as we unload belongings from our wanderings.

Our footsteps bounce off second-thought walls.

We focus now on flaws and imperfections

once hidden by staging’s trappings—

the gouge in the kitchen counter,

the washing machine that hinders the opening of the door.

The towel rack that held those pretty aqua towels has disappeared,

leaving scars where it once hung over the tub.

We wonder where we’ll

put all our stuff, all our stuffing.

.

But the lake is still,

and we talk of new counters and cupboards

and fresh paint and flowers,

and the fact that this is really just a retention pond,

and we wonder if an alligator lives there,

and should we leave the fence up or take it down,

and should we paint the house or wash it,

and is it really a good idea to have an

electric outlet next to the outdoor faucet?

.

The full moon’s rising, and it’s growing dark.

There will be light on tomorrow’s boxed day,

and we will sleep on a mattress pumped with air

while we wait for our boxes on the appointed day.

.

Across the street

a woman retrieves her trash can

and does not wave back.

On one side glow the lights

of reindeer, and the neighbor

responds to us with a gruff greeting.

On the other side, Santa hangs in a window,

and that neighbor, newly home from work,

waits in his car until we drive away.

.

Nine months has seemed like a lifetime,

Yet nine months has seemed like a breath.

We live in the “already and not yet,”

and we will follow the star and find our way.

Christmas will come here in this new place,

but Christmas is already here in our midst.

He loves us still

and stills us with love,

and we will celebrate

because we live tethered to a manger

and to a cross that lifts the

weight of waiting.

.

I am the Lord's handmaid.

Let it be.