CHRISTMAS MORNING
What did she know of birthing?
Despite dear Joseph’s steadfast love
she’d need to do this alone. More things
her angel made no mention of—
the labor pains that sliced like knives,
the flood of blood that somehow came
out of her body. A brand new wife,
events took place she could not name.
There was so much she didn’t know.
That he would be a lonely child.
That he’d calm winds when they would blow
no matter how westerly and wild.
That he would be crowned “king” someday.
That he would be beloved and hated.
That he would die a dreadful way.
Knowledge can be overrated.
She did just what she had to do,
like all mothers, before and after.
Gave birth to him—and me, and you—
innocent of the disasters
sure to come. The world’s a mess.
This is nothing new.
She clutched her child close, felt blessed,
wrapped him in her mantle, blue
as Bethlehem’s December sky,
and held him to her beating heart,
death a dark and distant lie,
life her legacy, an art
that bound them tightly to each other,
this human God and his human mother.
This article appears in December 2025.
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