December 2008

Verbum caro factum est et habitavit in nobis.
--John I, xiv

Not too long after I started submitting these columns to our community newsletter, the then-editor emailed me, saying that she tried to experience the world in the manner I wrote about, but that “life keeps getting in the way.” Not wanting to seem too “Donna Reed,” my next column was about the house stinking to high heaven because there was a rodent decomposing in our attic. I didn’t want it to appear life up on the hill is somehow charmed. D and I argue, there are ugly financial surprises, we suffer difficult loses just like every family in our neighborhood and the world. But, I do strive to see that there is some underlying poetry to what we experience, both good and bad, mundane and life-changing. And life can’t get in the way of that poetry—life is that poetry.

That’s not to say it’s all lovely sonnets; sometimes it’s ironic, snarky couplets hissed in the dark, or even open verse, stream-of-consciousness babble howled at the moon. But there is always a thread weaving through those moments, and I experience that thread as poetry, of a sort. When the interior poems are too devastating, I go outside, where every twig and blade, every squirrel and bird calls out its song, the lyrics a love-poem to the Creator. Or, I look up and see the poetic movement of the stars and clouds, or down, and hear poems murmured by roots and insects. All, for me, sublimely hopeful and beautiful.

This time of year—these mystical and mysterious days between Thanksgiving and year’s end—poetry is everywhere. Not in the tinny music spilling out of every store’s speakers, but in the quiet and personal moments. For church musicians like D and me, Advent contains some of the best poetry ever written, all set to gorgeous music we sing, and play, and listen to. But even non-musicians are surrounded by life’s poetry, ripe for the taking during these days of family and friendly gatherings.

Stop. Listen.

Regardless of religious belief, there is true and undeniable power in what is, perhaps, the most beautiful line of poetry ever written: Verbum caro factum est et habitavit in nobis. The Word was made flesh and dwelt amongst us. The older I get, the less it matters to me what exactly others view as “The Word.” I think we all experience life in unique and, ultimately, unknowable ways, so a Hindu’s idea of The Word, or a Native American’s or Jew’s or Buddhist’s—that has become, for me, of little importance. But the fact that, when we stop and listen, stop and think about The Word--the divine--somehow becoming part of our world, oh, what priceless poetry is caught up in that paltry handful of words: Verbum caro factum est. That grace—no matter what you call it or how you experience it—can somehow be made flesh, become tangible and experiential is mighty powerful stuff. And makes for great poetry.

So, whether you’re getting set to celebrate Christmas, Hannukah, Kwanzaa, Solstice, Dawali, listen for the poetry—it’s there. It’s in a solitary cup of coffee in a predawn kitchen. It’s in a walk through a late-season pile of leaves. It’s in a busy airport. It’s in a medieval carol so familiar it is part of your very soul. It’s in everything, and everyone. Listen: Verbum caro factum est et habitavit in nobis.