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Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Mary’s Song

Fog drapes silver veil. Opaque folds. Glory train. And I wonder to God, “Is this hint of what the train of Your robe looks like?”

And now ice is falling right out of the sky. I hear it tick-ticking polished finger nails on sky light.

And outside window crow caws hard. Another bird calls “Sue” all twangy and “hee-hee-hee”  laughs right out from some glad beak. I hear it all.

And isn’t electricity so loud? Demanding, really. Oh, I appreciate it. I’m no pioneer woman. But just now it’s nice to be rid of it. No humming heater, or ceiling fan whip-click, and the fridge has nothing to say. Power fell somewhere in ice fall.

Every branch, twig, remaining leaf and thorn and cane and remaining rose bow heavy ‘neath glory glaze. My own very breath falls crystal and drops low in air. And I think, “Who can stand before Your cold?”

I know I can’t. Not for long. I am right now, though. Amazed. Worshipping and puzzling. It’s beautiful glory. Hard glory. Heavy glory. Dangerous glory.

And just now the sun is searching it out right before my eyes. Splits light in two. I see it first in the icicles hanging from the eves. Sunlight itself breaks open over ice and awe breathes silver thanksgiving from my lungs.
And I am seeing holy. Seeing the inside of light. Shattered shards wink brilliant green here, blue there, yellow and red.

I look deeper. Eye searches upward. And there it is. Light shatters explosive all glory prism on high in branched arms and twigged hands and my neck cranes back to see it. Ice droplets all rainbow promise so holy and so all glory. And I wonder to myself again, “Is this hint of what the rainbow bowing over Your throne looks like?”
Splitting “whoosh” like wind gust and breaking glass. Massive branch has fallen. And who can stand before His cold? Who can stand before His glory? And how can His glory be so beautiful and so dangerous? So whole and so shattering? So entombing and so much very womb?

I think of Christ.

And why does my heart break a little at seeing that powerful limb lie dying on the frozen ground? It hurts that it should be broken under the weight of glory. It’s so heavy, this glory.

I think of Christ.

I long for glory. I search for it even now. I fear it, too.

I would read later from C.S. Lewis about glory,”…a load so heavy that only humility can carry it, and the backs of the proud will be broken….”

And I think of Christ.

Only humility can carry the weight of glory. He did. And the back of sin was broken. The back of my own pride breaks and falls hard splitting whoosh.
And I realize, even the breaking. The hard fall. It’s not about this. It’s not about the tree being misshaped. It’s not about the marks it bears. Not about my own misshapenness or the marks I bear, except, I wonder. It must be somewhat about those marks when I stretched to bring forth another generation.

I broke doing that. And I break daily and fall down and search out more glory doing this.

I think of Christ now, yes.
And Mary.

“Behold, I am the handmaiden of the Lord; let it be done to me according to what You have said” (Luke 1:38). And I make Mary’s song my own.

“May my soul enlarge and draw attention to Your glory."

I am learning to say this. And to mean it. To mean it when the journey jostles mule steps over loose rocks on the path. When sand shifts donkey beneath plod. To mean it when the walk is more than I meant when I first said it.

And I’m learning to say it right. Not like Zacharias'," “How will I know?” But, “How can this be?” The question is confirmation. It’s, “This will be. But how?” It’s, “It is what it is. But how do I do this?”

I say it when what it is threatens all I value most and I say it when too many little “Do’s” become too much. I say it. And the saying is reminder. I am the handmaiden of the Lord.”

I hear now the clamor at door. It’s “Do.” And my nerves are rattled by all expected December doings. “Do, do, do” pounds bam-bam-bam.

"How?” I frustrate out.

“Listen to Me. I am with you.” Soul womb enlarges.

I try to listen past “Do.” And breakfast needs making for my German. Must be done now because he has a meeting to do. And before I’m in kitchen “Do” slams fist on soul door.

“How?!” This maiden hand wants to slap “Do” hard.

“Listen to Me. And make breakfast. And listen.” I hear.


take out eggs.

“Let what I say revolve in your mind.” And I remember this is what Mary did.

I heat cast iron pan. And listen.

“I am with you.”

I slice bread.

“I am with you.”

I grate cheese.

"I am with you.”

I sandwich cheesy egg scramble between bread. And “Ah…,” I breathe. “I’m getting it. You are with me!”

I see it right here in pan. “I am scrambled. But You are Bread. And doesn’t Bethlehem mean ‘House of Bread?’” I listen more. Because Bread of Life was housed in Bethlehem scramble. And I am all scramble housed in this Bread.

I place breakfast on plate. And listen more.  “I am in you and You are in Me,” I hear.

I sing praise awe. My soul is impregnated by the Holy Spirit. I have been subdued. Humbled beneath the power of the Highest. He has overshadowed my soul and I am carrying Son of God. This is the answer to all my “How’s?”

Jesus in me.

May I remember my life is not about me. There are generations.

May the womb of my soul be inn.

May my soul expand with Son of God life.

May I eat and drink for the sake of Christ’s strength growing in me.

May I walk differently, remembering the humble walk of a pregnant woman,
so that others may not ask, “How far along are you,” but “When are you due.”

I have waddled so four times. And I am awed heavy when the generation of my womb and their spouses gather together. And will there be children of my children? The question is prism light reach.

May I remember the hard glory.

May I live to leave a legacy of broken pride. It is messy. It hurts. It’s like hard labor, broken water and life blood and womb membrane slippery cling to life born.

I want to deliver The Son of God and I am due right now. My due date is now. And it was yesterday. And it is tomorrow.


I shiver cold and tremble awe and my breath falls over the fallen branch at my feet. Where soul connects real.  Because, “The Lord is mighty. He has done great things for me. And holy is His name. And His mercy is on those who fear Him from generation to generation.”

And because, “Remember Your mercy spoken to Abraham and to his seed forever.”

And I tremble out, “Behold this Gentile maid-servant, in remembrance of Your mercy.”

It’s Mary’s song…

And mine.


written by: Carolyn Roehrig

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