The peace of the Path

He came to the world small.

I wonder, is that how He comes to us all?

I don’t know everything, but this I know to be:

Small is how He came to me.

I awoke one morning

To my mamaw’s warning,

“No playing outside today.”

But when I saw the transformation,

And she saw my elation,

I barely had to beg to have my way.

Bundled as could be,

With breadsacks on my feet,

I headed towards the back porch door.

My new little treasure, tucked away safely,

Ready to endure the cold bravely,

I could not wait anymore.

Over the past few days,

A plan had begun to grow.

I wouldn’t be stopped

By any amount of snow.

At the top of the hill

Was my destination,

And I climbed in the cold,

Without reservation.

Tho the morning sun was unseen,

Light covered the earth, pristine.

My tracks seemed the only sign of being.

Off in the distance,

When I really listened,

Came birdsong, soft and fleeting.

Finally, at the top,

My feet found my rock,

Buried beneath winter’s mantle.

Before climbing up,

I had things to prepare.

I had to be ready,

Taking great care.

Wtih fat-gloved fingers,

I broke evergreen sticks

Into same-sized pieces

That would do the trick.

I dug under the snow

And pulled up some weeds,

Tying the sticks together

To suit my needs.

I carefully climbed upon my rock,

Overlooking a small valley with a creek.

I knew exactly what I was going to do.

I’d seen it done every Sunday of every week.

Not in person, you see,

But on our tv.

With more fibrous weeds

From beneath the snow,

I hung my creations

Where I thought they should go.

Preparations completed,

In holy-hushed silence, so sweet,

I slowly took my treasure from my pocket.

Much smaller than the one at home,

And without a dust layer of its own,

Against unstained white, its bright color shocked.

When I’d grown strong enough and able,

and I could lift that big Family Bible from under the coffee table,

I’d studied the dramatic pictures within.

Seeing harshness in every expression,

Yet, told the words held good lessons,

This was where my journey would begin.

Then, while at school one early winter’s day,

A man with a big box came in to say

He would like to give the students a gift.

“He’s a Gideon,” someone said,

As I was handed a small book, crimson red-

A Bible that even a little girl could lift!

I read the words, as best I could,

Without understanding them, like I thought I should,

But they made me feel like I mattered.

Wherever I would be,

My New Tesament was with me,

Growing, delightfully, tattered.

On that blissfully brisk, white day,

stick crosses hanging from pine boughs above,

I opened my small Bible,

And I met none other than Himself, Love.

Without understanding,

Imitating what I’d seen,

Preaching to the sacred silence

Of this magical winter scene,

I heard, no, I felt

a voice say to me,

“You’re not alone.

I am with thee.”

To this very day,

When the cold caresses my face,

My mind goes back to my rock,

At Mamaw’s old place.

When landscapes are covered

in glistening white gems,

I think of His words,

And I think of Him.

It would be some time, still,

Before I learned of His name,

But that was the day I met Him,

All the same.

He came to me sovereign.

He came to me small.

Thru a little red book,

I answered His call.

In this season of Christmas,

Let me encourage you in this way:

Slow down and listen.

He has something to say.

He came to the world small,

And He came for us all-

No longer a babe,

Able and ready to save.

Jesus is His name.