From boards they sawed and planed and filed and splinters
they withstood.
This day they gripped no tool of steel, they drove no
iron nail,
But cradled from the head to heel our Lord, newborn and
frail.
---Thomas H. Troeger, 1985
I remember the hours well. Against all standards of logic
and decency, the medical staff at West Paces Ferry Hospital in cozy intown
Atlanta GA had seen fit to hand over a tiny, 8’12”, absolutely lovely newborn boy to two not tiny,
already sleep-starved, absolutely besotted grownups, to…what? Wait, we
were supposed to take care of that tiny creature? We, who knew nothing? We, of the too big hands, and the too loud voices, and
the good intentions and brokedown followthrough? We?
And yet, there we were,
tiny babe buckled into tiny rear-facing carseat, on the short surface road
drive to the tiny house the babe would call home. Into the nursery, walls
telling the story of teddy bears serving tea to bunnies and geese, and pigs in
pearls. And, lulled to sleep by the purring car motor and the air conditioner
against the August heat, laid (maybe gently) into tiny skirted bassinet. To sleep…and sleep…and
sleep. As clueless parents paced, and
fretted, and looked at our books (the Dr Spock and the hippie one,
for balance) in this pre-Google age.
Finally, at 12 hours, frantic parents called the emergency nurse line, all to
say, the tiny baby seems to be sleeping so peacefully. After a, well, pregnant pause, the tired nurse murmured, and this is a
problem how?
Imagine, the God of the universe embodied in the frailty of
a babe, entrusted to the rough, calloused hands of a clueless father…never
having cradled “God with us” before, and
only the fog of the half-remembered dream of angel whisper to guide and
reassure.
Who’d imagine? …our Lord, newborn, and frail…
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