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Snow, ice, ice-melt on the
sidewalk, crusty last-night's
snowfall underfoot,
slick-careful-walking into the
building, winter on the land.
Laughter, the low harmonics of a
congregation's love
echoes around the room, giving
depth. honesty to our
confession and peace.
Jonah, finally, pays attention
to THE Voice, heads for
Nineveh, forgiveness (not his,
of course, but God's)
on Jonah's lips.
We wrapped two year-old Lauren
in her baptismal
quilt, quilt and child wrapped
in mother's arms, blessed
secure in hope.
Jesus calls disciples. Come, he
says, and they drop their
livelihoods, pick up their
lives, start the journey toward
Jerusalem.
Kneeling, standing, hands held
up and out to receive
body and blood, elbows touching,
Christ near us, real
real presence in us.
Winter may be late on the land,
coming sharp, white
cold; gifted now, Christ-called,
Christ-sent, there is no
winter in the heart.
©
James Hugh Drury, Jan. 2012
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