Joseph

 The Virgin Mary had a baby boy, but oy,

I found this image here:
https://dianaleaghmatthews.com/
joseph-witnesses-birth-jesus/
#.YEOgWGhKg2w

what comes to my mind, anyway is Joseph.

Handsome carpenter who caught sweet Mary's eye,

proposed, was patiently awaiting the big day

when he could take her in his arms and to his bed.

Instead, the ultimate in disappointment

for his fiancée had evidently played around.

Forlorn and angry, torn, a Jew who loved the Law,

he knew the matter must be dealt with.

But as he conjured Mary's face with pure, angelic grace

he couldn't bring himself to drag her through

the mud of what would follow, gossip

and disgrace, the wagging tongues and pointing

fingers of the people in their town. Profoundly

sad, he reckoned he would be a bachelor

for all his days, for after such betrayal, 

how could he ever trust a maid again? He would

just quietly cast her out, the anguish of divorce

on top of heartbreak. Decision made, he went to sleep

with visions of the bride that would not be

until an angel interrupted with some news.

It wasn't some young yahoo who had

stolen her but Yahweh. God himself who'd chosen

her from all of time, from all the globe.

"I'm in good company," he said aloud.

The Holy Spirit was the one who planted seed

within her. "Virgin still," he thought, "still pure and sweet.

Her body may belong to God divine but oh, her heart.,

her heart, at least, is mine." He brought her

to the home he had prepared and watched her

belly grow and patiently endured the months

of lying there beside her in the night,

the smell of her hair and breath enough to drive

him mad. He'd reach around her in the darkness,

touch the skin that held a miracle. They'd

laugh to feel omnipotence that kicked and danced

inside and Mary, shyly, would assure him with a kiss

that soon, she would be truly his again.

(So little did they know of what would come.)

The long walk to Jerusalem, the humble barn,

amazing shepherds and a sky that echoed

praises from the angels all around. A night

of wonders was the birth of Joseph's son-who-

wasn't-really, but he'd raise him right,

a carpenter with skills and patience with the

wood. As Joseph brushed a hair that fell 

upon the face of Jesus as he nursed, the unplanned

father stared upon the mother's breast. He'd waited many

months and now he'd wait a few weeks more,

perhaps a bit less patiently, to consummate

his love for his sweet perfect bride.

(c) 2021, Ellen Gillette

Stations of the Cross

Instead of a mass for St. Patrick,

Michelangelo's Pieta,
St. Peter's Basilica
(1498-1499)

the Stations of the Cross,
fourteen complete with readings,
prayers, Our Fathers, somewhat somber
singing that inspired sweet contemplation.
Christ's condemnation, then
the cross beam laid across his
shoulders of such weight he fell.
His mother, in the crowd along
the road, the urge to rush in, help
her Son, prevented by the press of
people all around. A passersby,
conscripted, picked it up to keep
things moving. Then a woman wiped the
sweat off of his brow before he fell
a second time. The women he had
taught and healed and helped began
to mourn. Perhaps it was the sound
of their despair that sapped his strength,
the falling yet again, so close, so close
to Golgotha where soldiers stripped him
of his clothing, nailed him to the cross,
and there he died. As clouds rolled in,
the faithful took him down, his mother
held him one more time before they
laid him in the tomb. The fifteenth
station,  not yet celebrated, has to wait
some weeks, the one that made all of
the difference, the miracle of resurrection
and new life. The miracle today was that
a church filled to capacity with high school
students who have trouble being still in
class could stand so long without
a whisper or complaint,
some unbelieving but respectful,
others quite accustomed to the words.
And halfway through, I took my
heels off and curled my toes into the
carpet, thankful that his feet
and hands were pierced for me, and
sorry there was not another way
to save me, save us all.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015