'Tis

the

season

for the trite

trivial and twee;

when the mysteries of heaven

are swaddled in shabby perfection, the skies aflame

with the songs of men and angels.

We wonder:

what child

is

this?

We

love

to make

everything

hypothetical.

Theoretically, that'd be fine.

But then we are just

clattering

symbols.

Who

cares?

It's

clear

that night

really was

not silent after

all. Babies cry; sheep are noisy.

Still, in the not-so-stillness, Mary pondered these things

in her heart. The eternal word

became unspoken

for one brief

season

in

time.

He

turned

tables

on the sheep

and the oxen and

the ones who were selling the doves

on silver chains. He took their cords and bound them into

scourges, and he took their scourging

upon his own back

and by his

stripes we

are

healed.