I am unworthy of the Lamb.

I do not appreciate the gifts which are given to me.

I am not Wonderful, able to spin plates or planets. I cannot knit irises of any kind.

I am not a Counselor, able to illuminate and comfort, to see what ails and provide a sweet balm.

I am not Mighty. I am unable to bring back the dead, stop the blizzard, command a screach out of an eagle.

I am not Everlasting. I ache and rot.

I am not Peace embodied. I flare with anger, I am contentious, I lash and buck.

I am not the fruition or the promise. Prophets never saw me with aged eyes, or spoke of me until their tongues cracked.

But I act like they did, sailing through the days with my gaze fixed at the mirror as if, as if, as if.

Christmas Eve is a throttler. We put the presents under the tree, make sure they are arranged nicely, step back. There is something missing…I think. Something seems off and wrong. Who did we forget? Who hasn’t forgotten me?

The answer to both questions is the same.

And I am sorry.

(originally published December 24, 2007)

I call this family portrait reject, “Merry Christmas from Joel!”

It’s a sweet photo of our Joely Bean. He’s like the yolk in a runny egg, the nucleus in a cell, the sun in a chaotic solar system, the eye of a hurricane.