Friday, December 6, 2013

Wild Welcome

           My newest Christmas memory is less than 24 hours old.

          Yesterday evening my youngest son accepted the arduous task of getting his gimpy mom out of the house and up to the Christmas program at Watsontown Christian Academy. My excitement grew as he pushed my wheelchair up the ramp to the church building, and between the two of us we managed to get the glass door open and bump over the threshold. We were even a few minutes early, an unusual event in the Brosius family under any conditions.

          He wheeled me down the hallway, where a school mom caught sight of me and gave me a big grin. Then as we entered the church lobby, I heard a collective gasp and a collective exclamation, “Mrs. Brosius!”

          Then about a dozen students rushed the wheelchair and bombarded me with hugs—even teenage male students. What an amazing feeling to be smothered with love from the kids I’ve been missing for a whole month.

          I imagined at the moment that it felt like being on the Hollywood red carpet. But pondering it a few hours later at home, it reminded me of those scenes they show on TV of returning soldiers surprising their children at school. And as I continued to mull it over, I thought the welcome into heaven will be like this. That in turn reminded me of a poem I wrote some years ago.

          When I brought my poem to my critique group, our resident poet, a gracious silver-haired lady, kindly suggested I stick to prose. I ignored her advice, because, as I’ve said before, Christmas brings out the rhymer in me.

Home for Christmas

The Teacher told a tale one day
about a son who runs away.
Sick of home and family rules,
he exits town and hangs with fools,
wastes his cash, then tends a pen
slopping hogs, till one day when
sense returns, he quits the dust,
and pencils a sign, Dad’s House or Bust.

Now here’s the part that really shocked:
The boy gets home, the door’s unlocked,
and Dad comes sprinting down the street,
his errant son to kiss and greet.

Likewise at my Father’s home,
the porch light beckons all to come
and feast on grace and hope and cheer,
because it’s always Christmas here.

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