⁷ And she [Mary] gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger. (Luke 2: 7a, NRSV)
On this New Year’s Day in the Catholic Church, we celebrate the Feast of Mary, Mother of God. For this day, I have chosen one of the songs I composed as a Christmas present for my grandchildren in 2017. It is simply entitled, Lullaby. Imagine Mary, gently holding the child, Jesus, in her arms, and singing him softly to sleep.
Ever had one of those years? You know the ones I am talking about in which everything seemingly goes to hell in a handbasket? As 2019 was being whisked out the door last night, and Ruthie and I were awaiting the return of our son, Luke, from his evening of revelry, I paused to think over the events of the past year. I noted that it bore some great similarity to two other years since the turn of the new millennium.
2002 was an awful year in many ways. The death of our beloved Great Pyrenees, Floyd, me nearly being killed in a head-on collision, a long recovery back to mobility, the loss of 40% of function in my right hand due to the accident, a devastating loss for a professional pianist.
Then there was 2011. My hope for a new hip, albeit artificial, turning into a nightmarish “Twilight Zone” year of multiple surgeries, MRSA infections, and close to a year of medical leave, in which the muscles atrophied in my hipless left leg losing mobility, strength, and length (my left leg is now two inches shorter than my right).
And then, there is 2019. Ruthie’s ongoing physical problems from getting run over by a unobservant pickup truck driver, the resulting injuries forcing Ruthie to retire. The lawsuit against the driver and his insurance company fumbled, and having to start litigation all over again. The death of my brother, Bill, the retirement of a beloved pastor and leader, 42 years of ministry, too old to work with his successor, I knew it was time for me to retire. Then the accident one week prior to retirement in which my left ankle was broken, another round of multiple surgeries and recoveries from surgeries, from which I am still trying to completely heal. Yup, there are some years in which one searches hard to find grace.
There are years in which one completely understands Homer Simpson when he says, “This is the suckiest suck that ever sucked.”
This poem is a reflection on years in which the grace promised at the beginning of the year, turns rancid by the end of the year. The poem is a real accounting of something that happened five minutes to midnight, Christmas Eve of 2002, as our new puppy, Henri, and I headed out to the backyard to “do his dooty” so to speak. It is a bit tongue in cheek, yet, speaks truth to those years that we like to forget.
ANOTHER YEAR OF GRACE?
With John Wayne snarling at me
from the television screen,
I quickly glance at my watch;
five minutes to the end
of a year’s journey through
what the Psalmist would describe
as the Valley of Death,
and what Dante would describe
as a descent through hell.
The little small ball of white fur
whines at my feet,
his almond dark eyes
begging for the last bit of cheese
I have in my hand.
Take him out now
for his nocturnal constitutional,
Or wait until three in the morning?
It is not a difficult choice.
The puppy and I head for the door.
The puppy runs hither and yon
around the yard,
sniffing and searching
the frozen ground
for the perfect spot
to make his nocturnal emissions.
I reflect upon the arrival
of another year In Anno Domini,
with dread, or is it anticipation?
Another year of grace
is what they always say about
the turning of a new year.
Like the puppy running from
one frozen turd to another
in the yard, I, sniff and search
among the heap of promised
“grace-filled moments?”
from my past year.
The church bells begin
to peal out the old year
as the puppy stops and
stands poised upon a
strategically chosen location
to unleash the grace
contained within himself
upon the frozen ground.
I appreciate my puppy’s
brilliant metaphor of
crapping out the old year
to make room for the new year.
There are some years indeed,
in which grace is bestowed
in abundant quantity.
And, there are some years indeed,
in which one must sniff
and scratch to find the grace
hidden within the dung heap.
The church bells cease their tolling,
as the puppy, in a triumphal display
Of accomplishment,
kicks with his hind feet,
bits of ice, snow, and fecal matter
high into the air.
The puppy, head held high,
small tail wagging, and I,
retreat from the frozen yard
toward our house.
Warmth and a hope for new grace
greet us as we enter the house.
And, as I close the door,
I glance once more at the frozen yard.
I leave the old year
and its promise of grace,
lying in a heap
upon the frozen ground.
(c) 2020 by Robert Charles Wagner. All rights reserved.
