December Rain


On the brink of my memory -

in the days of my youth -

I loved, was loved, and lived

in the spring - in the sun - in the truth.


All was new and exciting to me -

every Christmas was crisp and clear.

The joy of the Season was plain to see.

It was the beginning and end of each year.


The truth was all around me,

for it emanated from my mother…

my family, friends, and Sunday school

teacher as told them by another.


There was Santa and there was Jesus

as I awoke on Christmas morn.

Santa brought me presents.

Jesus was virginally born.


He brought to me salvation

it was told to me in my youth,

but I only “saw” Christmas presents…

and then was told the truth.


That began a new year in my life,

as had it done seven times before,

but this seemed different somehow

no magic - no mystery.  It tore


my heart into to think that

all my life had been a lie.

There was no jolly Christmas elf,

nor was there a Savior to die.


Or so my broken heart did say,

while all others still played along.

I went to church and Sunday school

and even sang their songs.


How can you steal the magic

of the Christmas elf,

without damaging the miracle

of Christmas Day itself?


As I grew, I grew apart

from all those who played the game.

I, instead, worshipped truth

unlike the intellectually lame.


They were blinded by the light, you see

which is like being in the dark

for when you’re on a journey, my friend

your vision is where you start.


For if you head off in the wrong direction

and never realize your mistake

your eyes may gaze upon the goal

but your labor’s false - your mission’s fake.


I watched the world march away

as I struggled for the peak.

They ridiculed my “wayward” way

as they marched to different beats.


And then one day I found myself

alone and cold and tired

the magic of my youth was gone

as was my heart’s desire.


I looked to Heaven through teary eyes

and struggled hard to breathe.

I wailed at God in that expanse,

“Just fix her and I’ll believe!”


How little I knew what I had done

or how powerful He could be

or that He would fix my wife

by simply fixing me.


So when a problem comes down on me

as cold as rain in December

I think back to the night…

I wailed at God and remember


that though my problem, to me, seems big

for God, it’s a simple thing,

for somewhere behind December rain

God has for me a spring.




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