Lindy Thompson

I’m dreaming
of my grandmother’s house,
and small me in it,
running from room to room,
making the huge-at-the-time circle
from the kitchen, down the hall,
through the living and dining rooms,
bursting triumphantly through the magical swinging door
back into the kitchen, warm with people and cooking smells.

Not the of a white Christmas kind of dreaming.
The real kind,
in my bed, sound asleep —
waking and immediately remembering
the full-on sensory experience
of time-travel —
always, always to the grandmother’s house of my childhood,
multiple times over the years,
and again just last week.

I’m dreaming,
also,
of a friend,
long absent,
and a heartfelt reconnection
by means of one of those long, rocking embraces
that resets the past
and opens a new way forward –

yes, actually dreaming,
sound asleep last night,
being visited, so it seems, by a real live human person
who apparently can be two places at once –
trying on forgiveness in my sleep,
something I have not yet been able to achieve
while awake.

So I am dreaming,
apparently,
not of snow at Christmas,
but of love in its many forms –
being cared for as a child,
learning to care for as an adult –

the myriad incarnations of the infant Jesus,
born to us
to care for us,
but born through us
to change us,
transform us,
leave us permanently altered.

What we welcome at the manger
will rock our worlds,
take us places we did not anticipate,
teach us uncomfortable things we’d rather not learn,

but if my recent nighttime experiences are any indication,
love has come,
love is coming,
and awake or asleep,
the movement of God into our lives
will not leave us as is
but will pull, coax, entice us forward
into that beautiful future
of which
God of the universe,
God in the manger,
and
God in our hearts
is dreaming.