By Regal Robes

I have long been a dabbler in poetry. My love of the rhythms and rhymes of the lilting lines probably began with my mom's quoting snatches of poems she'd learned when she was in grade school - stuff of frost on pumpkins and barefoot boys with turned up pantaloons, not to mention wily spiders speaking craftily to silly, gullible flies.

I even began trying to write lines of poetry on my own. Once, when I was in third grade, I entered a short poem in a poetry contest that Blackboard Bulletin, the educational branch of the Pathway Papers, initiated.

Evidently the poetry judges winked at my poetical ignorance, including the jolt in the third stanza when the rhyme scheme in my poem went divergent, because they granted me a prize anyway. My twin sister had also submitted a winning poem and maybe they didn't want to seem partial and not allow me to choose a prize book, too - any book I wanted - from the pages of reading material for sale in the Pathway Publishers Catalog. At any rate, winning with a poem was heady stuff for an 8-year-old.

I wrote more poems. Predictable poems, mostly, the kind that had the same number of feet in each line, (and matching socks to boot), marching to the same beat throughout the entire predictable four stanzas of four lines each.

("Riding her bike, the dog chased my sister.") 

Sometimes I did more than correct the dangling modifiers in English class.

Somewhere along the way, though, I began to clue in that poetry is more a rich language than an unyielding frame in which to structure words. And I saw that much of the delight of that language lies in its unexpectedness.

It was like I had been trying to stuff words into a neat wooden box and make sure I got the top closed just so over them, but then I caught on that some words would not be crammed or lidded. They insisted on dangling a leg over the side of the box here and jabbing out an arm over there, and I became intrigued. (I was especially fascinated by the ones that popped up and said "boo".)

My poetry output dwindled after that, partly because I discovered there's wonderful poetry to be had in writing prose, and partly because I felt inadequate to compose truly wonderful poems. Great poetry seems so full of mystery and unseen connections now that I can only read it, and reread it, hoping at least to catch a glimpse of the deeper meaning.

I continue to love reading poetry - and trying to catch its deeper meanings. Some of my poet friends have, on occasion, asked me to critique one of their pieces. I would love to be able to do that for them adequately, but it feels strange to comment on the meaning of their poem when I have to ask them in the first place what much of it means.

Still, poetry intrigues me. Often, in good verse, a line or two will reach out to pique my interest, to compel further reading, to impact my thinking. Such are many of the poems I encounter on The Curator's page on Facebook. I "follow" the contributors there, which means occasionally I wander onto their site, hoping to lick up any poetic crumbs that fall from the rich scribes' pens. A particularly delightful wander on that page occurred last month.

During the Christmas season just past, I opted not to follow an Advent tradition I began several years ago. When I read through Ann Voskamp's The Greatest Gift for the first time, I knew I'd want to make the book a yearly treat in December. Each time I go through the book, meant for daily reading throughout the four weeks of Advent, I underscore and highlight lines that impact me, and I note which year we're in.

I was away from home on our Thailand Trip when Advent began this year and I didn't have my book with me. When we got home, I knew that getting back into routine (while jet-lagged) and trying to catch up and stay on track in the Advent book would put enough pressure on me that treat would soon turn to overwhelming task. I decided to take a break and pick it up again next year.

Instead, I chose to look and listen for Advent signs in my daily life, times when I knew He had come, is here, is coming again. Signs that it will be worth the wait - and worth the weight of this life.

I read some of the Advent poems posted on The Curator. One especially caught my eye, or I should say my heart. From its opening lines "Lord of Heaven, I thought I was afraid You'd come cold and commanding" to its closing lines "come slowly, come softly...O Christ, have mercy", Advent X by Conrad Martin put me in that poetry-so-far-beyond-me mindset, and yet. Something in it reached out and touched me.

It felt like royalty was going past, and I got brushed by swishing purple robes.

I wonder if my ongoing discovery of God is similar to this. He is such Deepness. He is such Mystery. He is such Unexpected Nearness.

He kept showing up during Advent. I wouldn't be thinking of Him at all, and then I would see or hear something and suddenly, there was this certain inner rush of knowing, or sudden tears, or laughter of confirmation: He IS!

This happened during the Sunday School Christmas program at church, when a class of young girls shared a reading their artist teacher Renee, had written. It was Mary's welcome to Jesus, her coming Baby, and was accompanied by a painting of Christ in utero.

Art can do that to me; can cause a little leap of joy unbidden. One of my son Ricky's daily drawings did that recently. Coming from the prompt "Romance in bloom", he had a man's angular shoe and a lady's daintier shoe toeing together in the sketch, and I can't really explain what it connected and stirred in me at the result.

By Ricky Martin, on his drawit366 Instagram account. Used by permission.

For me, Advent signs also appeared in winter snow and sky scenes:

On Facebook, I read Keeshon Washington's description of the Christmas Home-going of Clayton Shenk, the father in the family that took Keeshon into their own: "... finally, at 4:47 am, we said goodbye to our hero. We wailed for a long time, and then closed the early morning by encouraging and being together." That word "wailed" spoke to me of people being real, and that somehow made God seem more close and real.

Another Advent sign came in the form of an illustration brought to mind. Sometimes, I question my Christianity. (Yes, you heard that right.) I say I'm a Christian, but I wonder if I truly live as one. I long to worship the real God, not just who I imagine Him to be. When I pray, I want my faith not to be in my faith, but in Him alone. One day, I got a mind picture of me turning my doubts and worries about this over and over in my hands, the constant kneading turning them into a messy ball of shreds. Suddenly, I noticed that bigger, stronger Hands were curved around mine, encompassing the turmoil and struggles.

Sometimes I listen to a Read-aloud Revival podcast, and while I enjoy the insights from the host (Sarah Mackensie), I look forward to the very last feature as much as anything in every new episode. Sarah invites children from anywhere in the world to call in and share with her their name, where they live, what their favorite read-aloud book is, and why it's their favorite. She records these calls and posts them on her podcast for her listeners to enjoy. One day, there was a little tyke - I don't know, maybe 3 or 4 years old, who talked about a book he likes. He just got me with his young, endearing voice saying, "fravorite".

Two of the books I requested and received in the book exchange our family does every Christmas are actually children's books. I've already read both Growing Toward the Sun and Full Moon, Half a Heart. How I loved them! Author Vila Gingerich has an extraordinary gift for pulling the reader into 11-year-old Celeste's (the main character) world. In the book about Celeste's adjustments in the family's move from Kansas to Wisconsin, I got tears over this part: "The bell rang then and we put our lunchboxes on the shelf and went out for recess. Just as I reached the door, Miss Koehn (teacher who was also new to the area) put her hand on my shoulder.  'Celeste', she said, 'I'm going to tell you a secret. This morning I got up and saw that old yellowish couch in the teachers' house and looked out the window at the neighbor's dairy barn, and I smelled that barn, and - you know what - I was so lonesome for home, I cried. I know how you feel.' She gave me a half-hug as we walked outside together. I looked into her blue eyes and couldn't say a word..."

Yes, lately there have been times I've felt brushed by regal robes swishing by. I know I've been touched by His Majesty.

How have you been brushed by royal robes lately?