My daughter is crying in her room right now.
We are both of us wounded, my daughter and I, hurt by the harsh words just exchanged. Our mother/daughter relationship—our mother/teenaged-daughter relationship—needs the healing power of humility.
I need to be the one to say “I’m sorry.”
I need to remember what those years were like. I do remember, but my pride! My pride.
Here is another Advent poem:
The Queens Came Late
The Queens came late, but the Queens were there
with gifts in their hands and crowns in their hair.
They’d come, these three, like Kings, from far,
following, yes, that guiding star.
They’d left their ladles, linens, looms,
their children playing in nursery rooms,
and told their sitters, “Take charge! For this
is a marvelous sight we must not miss!”
The Queens came late, but not too late
to see the animals small and great,
feathered and furred, domestic and wild,
gathered to gaze at a mother and child.
And rather than frankincense and myrrh
and gold for the babe, they brought for her
who held him, a homespun gown of blue,
and chicken soup—and noodles, too—
and a lingering, lasting cradle-song.
The Queens came late and stayed not long,
for thoughts already were straining far—
past manger and mother and guiding star
and child a-glow as a morning sun—
toward home and children and chores undone.–from When It Snowed that Night by Norma Farber
I will go now, to my daughter, because I know that my Advent is my Advent. These “little” things, these heavy, humbling moments…
They are my path to the Christ Child.