by Lianne Elizabeth Mercer
Christmas morning I get up at five a.m. to drive to San Antonio. I’m a nurse; my children are far away. I’m working so others can be with their families. I leave town on damp, shadowy streets Dickens might have written into A Christmas Carol. Inspiration crunches under my tires. Festive is a sleepy word. Christe Adoramus Te hums from the radio, turns my car into a Hill Country music box. Alone in the dark, I feel potential dawn licking me awake. In windows, decorated trees invite light. Behind them the sleepless unwrap goodbyes in bright packages tied tight with ribbons of knotted years. I am the only celebrant of the present. Cellos sing me down the road. Sopranos and guitars voice my prayers: may deer stay nested beneath mesquite. May coyotes and armadillos seek food only on their side of the road. What did Mary know about clouds of sound rising up and up? She knew her response to God’s riff, His call for a reprise. She knew the world could heal when every creature sings. Over the hill, a bright star approaches at 80 miles an hour. Did wise men see a similar blurred vision of light in the sky? My hands grip the wheel. The truck and I approach, pass. All-out brights. The Voice of the Hill Country drives me toward morning. My racing heart meets God in a grace note. Copyright © 2003 Lianne Mercer