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Description
I spent twenty minutes
arranging the wine, bread, and tablecloth,
and another hour in the garden

picking flowers, all for Jesus.

I felt the room breathing with its
own life before I ever even sat
down on the couch.

Last year I spilled the wine,

this time the bread falls off the plate,
cracking on the floor, Christ's broken body -
I'm so imperfect, small, a wailing babe.

I want to promise I'll be good

for the rest of my life, but that is impractical.
You and I know better.
You know there's too much

settled dust on this body,

just as there was
on the fine porcelain dishes
mother pulled from the china cabinet.

My footprints are muddy,

as if I still am dripping
from the mud-pit of my baptism.
They lead a path into the living room,

this make-shift holy place

we have made for your son.
And that breath - it is there again,
a rhythm in the songs and the dog's howls

and father's misty eyes

like a throb of one big heartbeat
across the whole world.
I inhale on the next beat,

and I'm breathing in something sweet.

I could try to make up, but I know it's pointless.
We were designed to always be children.
You are ready to give, and give, and give,

as a Father does.

I pass the wine
and I don't spill it this time.
It's a miracle

on a day that is somehow both somber and beautiful.

Description
I spent twenty minutes
arranging the wine, bread, and tablecloth,
and another hour in the garden

picking flowers, all for Jesus.

I felt the room breathing with its
own life before I ever even sat
down on the couch.

Last year I spilled the wine,

this time the bread falls off the plate,
cracking on the floor, Christ's broken body -
I'm so imperfect, small, a wailing babe.

I want to promise I'll be good

for the rest of my life, but that is impractical.
You and I know better.
You know there's too much

settled dust on this body,

just as there was
on the fine porcelain dishes
mother pulled from the china cabinet.

My footprints are muddy,

as if I still am dripping
from the mud-pit of my baptism.
They lead a path into the living room,

this make-shift holy place

we have made for your son.
And that breath - it is there again,
a rhythm in the songs and the dog's howls

and father's misty eyes

like a throb of one big heartbeat
across the whole world.
I inhale on the next beat,

and I'm breathing in something sweet.

I could try to make up, but I know it's pointless.
We were designed to always be children.
You are ready to give, and give, and give,

as a Father does.

I pass the wine
and I don't spill it this time.
It's a miracle

on a day that is somehow both somber and beautiful.