My child, is the child laughing.
She is the girl in the middle of the Christmas pageant
who rejoices with the Spirit;
her smile is as wide as the river Jordan,
and her heart brims with the love from my soul.
My child, is the child waiting.
He is my son who holds his brother’s hand
during bedtime prayer, and keeps monsters and the darkness
at bay, when small pieces of fear creep under their door;
his eyes swim with the wisdom of his father.
My children, are the children who yearn;
for Christmas morning on their mother’s lap,
in their father’s arms,
in a home that was built for them.
After the last presents are wrapped,
the dinner for tomorrow is arranged,
the last line of the pageant has been spoken,
and there is nothing left in the evening to finish…
A mother’s Christmas blessing rests on the home.