Today, memories of lockdown with
unseasonal cold, semi-constant rain.
The virus still with us, like Jacob we are reminded
of the limp that must attend the blessing.
Yet we too have wrestled with Immanuel; He
has wrestled also, knowing every
virus, every locked-down heart.
So tinsel and bauble can sparkle without
kitsch or fraudulent claim. He is with us.
On no day does this change.
My son, eyes keener than mine for the signs of joy,
reaches out, grabs hold.
The Consolations of Writing 