Carried by hands still wet from washing
the bowl is now a scatter of blue glass,
the cherries are on the floor,
and I have cut my finger. 

This is what it means to be broken.

Heavy with gravity,
unable to keep hold of the gifts,
waiting to be swept up
and swept together.

"Carried." Made with Paper.

"Carried." Made with Paper.

grace and welcome

An invitation has been pressed upon me, pressed into me. 

I have been called to a life lived with great hospitality, to cultivate a heart of radical welcome. For years Joshua and I have sought to grow in the grace of hospitality, and now that seeking has sought us.

And, it is being revealed to me, in order to offer this deep and genuine welcome to others, I must learn to extend greater acceptance and grace to myself. 

If my house is dirty and disorganized,
if I'm unkempt and flabby, 
if I never return to work or finish my degree—
if I lose what I think I need to be myself, 
I am still a self loved and welcomed by Christ and those dear ones He has put in my life.

From a place of peace we may offer peace; from a place of welcome we may offer welcome. 

You're welcome here, Baby Bennett <3

"A Cradle Song" // A Poem for Christmastime

by William Blake

Sweet dreams for a shade,
O'er my lovely infants head.
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams,
By happy silent moony beams

Sweet sleep with soft down,
Weave thy brows an infant crown. 
Sweet sleep Angel mild,
Hover o'er my happy child.

Sweet smiles in the night,
Hover over my delight. 
Sweet smiles Mothers smiles
All the livelong night beguiles.

Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thy eyes,
Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,
All the dovelike moans beguiles.

Sleep sleep happy child.
All creation slept and smiled.
Sleep sleep, happy sleep,
While o'er thee thy mother weep

Sweet baby in thy face,
Holy image I can trace.
Sweet babe once like these, 
Thy maker lay and wept for me


Wept for me for thee for all,
When he was an infant small.
Thou his image ever see.
Heavenly face that smiles on thee. 

Smiles on thee on me on all,
Who became an infant small,
Infant smiles are his own smiles,
Heaven & earth to peace beguiles.

In this season it is good to slow and stop and hear the words "miracle" and "incarnation" and (sure, go for it) "hypostatic union." It is good at Christmas to mull over the mystery of God in human flesh and why not use all the big words we've got?
But then it is also good to hear the eighteenth-century Blake speak in the simplest words of the most magnificent mystery: God the "maker" has become a crying babe, and "Infant smiles are his own smiles"!