Let January Fail

A groggy 9am poem

It’s January 21st,
and I’ve already failed
on my New Year commitments.

But I’m 32, and I’m pretty darn tired
of perfection
and tailored lives
that hide the messy cries
to a God who came into this world
screaming,
covered in blood
surrounded by soiled straw
and thick mud.

Instead, I’ll consecrate my days
not in perfect squares
all their lines and edges crisp,
but in squiggly stanzas
that have no rhyme.

I’ll pray a liturgy and probably cry.
I’ll take the medication
and stretch my body
and thank God for the gift
of a messy story
that looks less like a mansion
and more like a manger.

I’ll hold the gift of life to my breast
like Mary with her babe,
remembering that this tiny, fragile thing
is actually the embodied flesh
of what I’ve learned to call “eternal.”