through the surface of time
One of the unique pleasures of the blogosphere is that we get to visit people in the midst of their lives. Tonight, you may be able to smell the shortbread as it bakes in the background. It is too late for baking of course: it is too late every year. As I bake, I am listening to music, sometimes to carols. One of my favourites is "Cry of a Tiny Baby" by Bruce Cockburn.
Like a stone on the surface of a still river
Driving the ripples on forever
Redemption rips through the surface of time
In the cry of a tiny baby.
It is a strange and difficult Christmas for me, with family issues and business issues looming large. Both my sons are working this Christmas; all four of us are moving in different directions. The tree is in the yard, not the living room. We grab moments here and there. It's a long way from a Christmas with little children.
It is a strange and difficult Christmas. It always is - not always for me, but always for someone. Redemption rips through the surface of time. Yes, I think. That's what labour feels like. Yes, it rips and rips are like tears and tears look precisely the same as tears, dropping on the screen. As the tears of a tiny baby, crying in the night. Babies do not protest the dark; they cry as the light hits them.
I hope you can smell the shortbread, faintly vanilla. It is crisp as it comes from the oven. I like it slightly browned at the edges, slightly toasted. There are only three ingredients: flour, sugar, butter. Yet no two people can make shortbread exactly the same way.
Like a stone on the surface of a still river
Driving the ripples on forever
Redemption rips through the surface of time
In the cry of a tiny baby.
It is a strange and difficult Christmas for me, with family issues and business issues looming large. Both my sons are working this Christmas; all four of us are moving in different directions. The tree is in the yard, not the living room. We grab moments here and there. It's a long way from a Christmas with little children.
It is a strange and difficult Christmas. It always is - not always for me, but always for someone. Redemption rips through the surface of time. Yes, I think. That's what labour feels like. Yes, it rips and rips are like tears and tears look precisely the same as tears, dropping on the screen. As the tears of a tiny baby, crying in the night. Babies do not protest the dark; they cry as the light hits them.
I hope you can smell the shortbread, faintly vanilla. It is crisp as it comes from the oven. I like it slightly browned at the edges, slightly toasted. There are only three ingredients: flour, sugar, butter. Yet no two people can make shortbread exactly the same way.
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