Geode

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?