meditating tonight of a baby, falling from a golden heaven into a young girl's womb, birthed precipitately in a barn filled with quiet animals, living transient,homeless, and poverty-stricken in this world... and calling me- gently- to do the same.
"He did not have a house where He could go
When it was night- when other men went down
Small streets where children watched with eager eyes,
Each one assured of shelter in the town,
The Christ sought refuge anywhere at all:
A house, an inn, the roadside, or a stall!
He borrowed the boat in which He rode that day
He talked to throngs along the Eastern lake;
It was a rented room to which He called
The chosen twelve the night He bade them break
The loaf with Him, and He rode, unafraid,
Another's colt in that triumph-parade.
A man from Arimathea had a tomb
Where Christ was placed when nails had done their deed.
Not ever in the crowded days He knew,
Did He have coins to satisfy a need.
They should not matter, these small things I crave.
Make me forget them, Father, and be brave!"
-"The Transient", Helen Welshimer.