Shepherd’s Story
Read at Lambrick Park's Christmas Eve Service/December 2019 Wow! What a crowd. You lot look rough. Like you’ve been waiting to get to the front of this line for days. Nothing like a census to bring people together. All of Bethlehem’s children home. At least you have one. A home that is. ‘Tis the season us shepherds live and sleep with our sheep and goats. We wander from pasture to pasture and, rarely, do we feel welcome. Just yesterday good ol’ Abram stormed out of his house yelling-- “You foul-smelling animals find another place to graze.” I wish he was talking about the sheep.
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Joseph’s Story
Read at Lambrick Park's Christmas Eve Service/December 2019 We’re an hour away from Bethlehem, my childhood home. I want to run, to beat nightfall and to provide Mary with safety and shelter. A donkey-induced labour helps no one though, so we’ll walk slow. Our ten-day journey nears its end. “Mary, see that hill. The one with the date palm and the large rock. My buddy James and I battled giants, lions and Philistines there. Sometimes I’d be King David, sometimes Goliath; sometimes a shepherd, sometimes a wolf. Sticks became swords and palm leaves slingshots. Israel always slayed her enemies.” Mary's Story
Read at Lambrick Park's Christmas Eve Service/December 2019 Dried bread, dried berries, and dried meat--again. Travel leaves Joseph and me dry. Oh, how I long for Nazareth, for a bowl of my mother’s lentil stew. A scene from home plays in my mind. Mama hunches over the fire. The green onions, garden vegetables, parsley and thyme sizzle and spark as she adds the olive oil. The scent spreads throughout our small cluster of limestone houses. I close my eyes to keep the picture alive. Why are we here?
Ten Canadian youth and their leaders ride a dilapidated van to rural Mexico after buying into the Sunday morning mission trip infomercials. Difference making? Grand healings? Supernatural experiences? No. Well into our week, walks to the convenience store and the refreshing lift of Manzana apple soda delight our senses more than any spiritual outing. Rehab clinic soccer matches, fireside worship and morning devotions satisfy. But we itch to transcend the ordinary and mundane. First published in Collected Magazine Issue 1 / January 15, 2020
I tiptoe barefoot through the carved riverbed. The cold cascades over my feet and numbs them from the fractured rock’s razor-sharp edges. I push forward calculating the depth of each step and ensure a solid foothold. The river’s rush both pleases and frightens. How much do I control? When do I let go and abandon stability for the weightless glide atop the water and when do I fight my way back to shore? |
Chavon BarryChavon is a new writer from Victoria, British Columbia. She wrestles with simple answers and is learning to listen, to be still with God. Archives
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