A young woman and her fiancé had dreams and plans that were turned inside out when Mary told Joseph she was pregnant, and not by him.
"Raise the boy as your own," the Angel told Joseph. "Marry the girl." And so he did.
I love this story. So much giving way to grace.
I love this illustration I saw on Facebook with the accompanying poem to break our hearts of stone:
"The Clanging Carol" by Erin Wathen
Who is it that we’re looking for, when we sing Away in a manger, no crib for a bed …
Who is that baby we think is coming
To sleep so soundly, so content in his poverty and unbelonging?
Who are we thinking of, in all those refrains of Noel and Angels We Have Heard on High?
Who is that child who so unobtrusively slips into the night,
so as not to disrupt our ugly sweater party, or Black Friday,
or the Empire?
The Empire that greets migrant children with a parade of guns and a cloud of tear gas?
The march of Herod’s troops
as they chase the unwelcome off into the night,
singing Joy to the World and What Child is This?
What child is this, indeed,
who comes to find sanctuary
in a kingdom that fills its Decembers with parades and presents, and elves
on shelves leaving treats and mischief,
because it is all so Magical.
We make it magical. It’s all about the children, of course.
To see their faces light up,
Cast in the glow of our candles,
held high as we sing Silent Night,
and shed a tear at the beauty of it all, this night so Holy.
This O-so-Holy-night, this Midnight Clear,
this Little Town of Bethlehem--strikes a dissonant tone
In a land that idolizes childhood but brutalizes children.
To sing of angel choirs, as we chase children
back into the punishing desert.
Who is it that we think we’re waiting for?
Some white baby in a Gap sweater.
A child who will lay his head in a Pottery Barn-perfect nursery.
A holy family straight from a Hallmark card.
Noel, Noel, Noel.
To sing of gentle Mary, pure and lowly.
Pure as the driven snow;
so holy, holy, holy.
And to rip babies from their mother’s arms
As they flee the terror of Caesar, again.
We are waiting for someone to save us
from these winter frozen hearts,
and these wretched border walls making prisoners of us all.
This unresolved chord hangs over us, a light in outer darkness.
O come, o come, Emmanuel.
Fight your way through our rubber bullets, our poisoned air.
Let your stinging eyes and gasping breath
and bruised, beaten body
bring something that might save us from ourselves.
O come, O come, Emmanuel. We’ll sing it again
Deserving or not.
We lift this clanging carol into the toxic night sky,
Not knowing who we sing to, or wait for or seek.
O come, Emmanuel. God with us.
(Artist: Kelly Latimore, 2018)