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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