Possible Annunciations
I see Good News in midnight's aurora
Evangelizing the sky with jeweled waves of mystery.
Her silent witness cries Glory!
Glory to God in the highest heavens.
My faith is restored by the morning doves,
Who know the meaning of a winter sun’s rising—
Christening each day with flutter and wing,
Offering gifts of twig, seed, and feather.
Even the dust, celestial and hovering,
Hearkens angels in the slanting gold of afternoon light—
Seeming to hint at a truth half guessed,
Yet wholly immanent:
You have come.
You will come again.
And with my own eyes, I will see my salvation.
I wonder what Mary was doing one minute before Gabriel arrived to announce the salvation of the world and the role she would play in it—the moment now known for all time as “The Annunciation.” Was she praying, sleeping, sweeping, or baking? Was she holding someone else’s child? Was she laughing or crying? Maybe she was singing quietly to herself. The one thing we do know is that the angel’s sudden appearing was an unanticipated interruption of her ordinary life. In an instant, Mary’s sight was changed as she beheld the invisible made apparent in the form of Gabriel, inseparably entwining annunciation with revelation.
That’s what the above poem is about, I think. It came from wondering, “How many tiny annunciations of the glory and presence of God do I miss, simply by not being interruptible?” Am I willing to live at the slow pace it takes for good news to be revealed in my midst? I imagine Mary was not a frantically busy person who rarely found the time to pray. In fact, I can envision Mary’s life being quite boring and unremarkable. And yet the boring, small town life of a teenage girl is precisely where the Good News was first proclaimed. Do we consider this enough?
Sometimes I’m worried my life is too unremarkable, so I search for myriad ways to fill days with artificial significance. But if I sit still and wait in silence, even floating dust motes in the window’s afternoon light can become angels before my eyes. The birds outside my kitchen window become feathery, twittering tidings of great joy. I cannot see such things when experiencing depression—cannot imagine a world beyond the darkness and dullness, shimmering just beneath the surface. It is as if my eyes are broken, and all I can see is what is wrong with me, my life, and the world. I wonder if the opposite of depression is not joy, but wonder. Eyes to see stars beyond the darkness, eyes that turn expectantly heavenward, even in the midst of the dull and mundane. Mary’s eyes.
My prayer for each of us this Christmas is that we are given Mary’s eyes to behold once more the joy and wonder of the tiny King in our midst. May we be willing to stare into the night sky fearlessly, long enough to glimpse the star the wise men followed. May the Annunciation become not just possible, but personal to all who hunger to see the salvation of the Lord with their own eyes.
Amen, and Merry Christmas!
Going Deeper: Listen to Breath of Heaven by Amy Grant.