1997 was my one-armed Christmas.
That whole season long
other people cut my food, tied my shoes,
and wrapped my children’s presents.
I might have learned of grace
I said thank-you all the time
but was less grateful than embarrassed.
Still so sure I need less
than those I meant to serve.
I might have found the gospel’s heart,
except as sight unseen.
A misty place where all are waiting . . . . aching . . . . .
for bread to fill us up.
Bread which does not sell for money
or any tender, human-held.
Each of us one-armed somehow,
but none of us embarrassed.
Only glad to be in line
at so glorious a meal.