The children are just stirring behind me, the floor creaks as they ease from bed into the shower, old enough now to drive a car. Unimaginable that these are the same sons who I once held in my arms, held within my very self. Unimaginable that this child Mary is struggling to bring to birth — that we still struggle to bring into the world — is God from God.
My own sons' cells still course through my veins. Mary, I want to say, this child will never leave you, not even until the end of time. "To that which you are," Augustine says, "you answer: 'Amen'" Consubstantial, one in Being.
To which I say, "Amen."
*From Eliot's Journey of the Magi; listen to it here.
Looking for more light? Read Robin's light-infused, tender Christmas Eve sermon, which redeems even physics for the equation averse.
Or ponder Chris Satullo of WHYY reflection on the meaning of Christmas here.