Jesus, like the magi, and the little drummer child, I bring you a gift. I pray it will be of use in this world. The wrapping isn’t fancy, the package not designed to sell. What I have are words, words that I unfold before you. Words about a life, mine, that has been transformed by a life, yours. The words of epiphanies, of God moments that have changed me from Herod––fearful and wanting control because I never really had it––into a mother Mary, willing to say yes to God even when I don’t understand how the plan is to come about.
I bring to the manger words you will need when you are older, words that will thread you to humanity and to your divine essence, words to balance you between worlds. I bring you words that are the story of struggle and triumph of each person who has made their way to you.
I drop to my knees under the weight of them, wrapped in a tattered cloth I have tied around my arm like the Shema of my ancestors. Then one by one I tuck words like Thank You into the corners of the straw around your sleeping frame. Your little fist opens for a moment, reaching for a word to hold tight to your chest. You choose Love.