I cup a mound of straw in the palm of my hand.
Coarse.
Dusty.
As it sifts through my fingers,
Crisp wind catches bits on unseen wings.
How many times did she feel unseen?
I close my eyes against the chill.
I remember the sounds of the barn
As evening spread purple on a pasture horizon…
Cattle lowing,
An occasional hoof tamping at the ground.
Above the musky notes of horses warm,
The sweetness of hay rises from the manger.
A cradle?
The welcome place of a newborn tender,
With ten delicate little fingers,
Ten tiny pink toes,
Hair fine as silk.
Wee one rests in utter contentment
Upon manger boards and hay tufts?
No room.
How many times had she been cast aside,
Turned away these last months?
How many times would He be rejected?
Then?
Now?
I wash these ten little toes of my sleepy one.
He drapes heavy over my shoulder,
His breath warm on my neck.
I fold little jeans and fuzzy jammies.
I gather red and white dishes,
Sink tower rising.
My heart swells wide…
Lest there be no room.
So full of my own desires,
My own ambition,
My own unfurling to-do list,
That He would see no room prepared?
So often mama hearts clamor
With the noise of restlessness
To experience more…
To be more…
To do something big.
Yet He chose a simple girl.
A feed trough for a bed.
No palace.
No throne.
No crown…
But of thorns.
The King majestic
Chose to be an infant vulnerable.
Creator God chose to be man.
One Father,
Abba,
Surrendered His beloved Son,
Surrendered Himself.
The Utmost chose most lowly.
Most humble was Most High.
Washed was the expanse between.
Wooden boards upon the back of a babe…
The back of a man…
Savior of my handmaiden’s heart.
Oh, infant child, may You find room with me.
Quieting my heart,
Susan
“My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Savior. For He hath regarded the low estate of His handmaiden: for, behold from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed.” Luke 1: 47-48
