The puppets have come out of hibernation. They waited quietly for a chance to tell a story, with no evidence of impatience. I wish I could say the same for me, when I lodge my complaints with God about the tardiness of events He seems to have overlooked.
The script is a single page, and includes the woman who is both vulnerable in
her pending birth and dazzlingly beautiful. She is wrapped in the sun, with stars hovering above her hair and the moon supporting her as she walks. Childbirth is a vortex of deep strength, tapping a well of tenacity I didn't realize was there. Energy that is usually reserved for modesty, and tending the needs of others, is hijacked for the cardinal purpose of ushering in life.
A dragon with a tangle of necks lays in wait to attack her. We are not told why he
hates babies, only that he does. I wrote a song about this dastardly foe, which will be part of the performance, but my favorite uncle once mentioned that the lilting tune makes him sound like the good guy.
If you are not familiar with the scripture, let me reassure you that she is safe. The baby arrives and is scooped up to God. We will reenact this rescue with a white thread, which is a poor substitute for those times when God has lifted me from the jaws of
contempt, or judgment. A septet of heads give plenty of room to elaborate on the variety of ways we snap at one another.
She is gifted with wings, as well. The closest I have come to flying is when I can rise above fear, and see the vista of God's great capacity to protect us.
