He hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire him.
I cry
reading Imogene Herdman
to my daughter;
I cry
channeling Mr. Krueger
in my response
when she asks,
“Why are you crying?”
and consoles,
“Just let it out, dude.”
I cry
playing piano while primary kids,
like my nose-picking 5-year-old,
sing “Away in a Manger.”
I cry
singing “Silent Night”
next to my teenage son
still dialing in his bassoprano voice.
I cry
hearing an 11-year-old Isaiah
read “Wonderful, Counselor…”
to his daydreaming Sunday school class.
Is it because
these instances juxtapose
the comic with the divine
that they
sucker punch me?
The ridiculous collisions
fracturing the familiar
to reveal
inarticulable epiphanies?
Dirt-clod exteriors
giving way
to something else
clearer
inside?
