To the baby in the manger

You're so small, and so tiny, and delicate. You can't even lift your head. How can I expect you to save the world?

I can't imagine you on a cross, can't imagine you creating the world, can't imagine your clear eyes having seen the depths of hell. I can't imagine confessing the horrible sins of my heart to someone so innocent and pure as you. I shudder to imagine tiny baby fingers curled into a fist, this precious hand, one day being marred by a spike.

The world thinks things of your mother that you should never hear said.

I just want to tell you I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for every pain you'll endure for my sake. I'm sorry for the things you'll see me do, or hear me say that will make you wonder if we're actually part of the same family, or ashamed that you are. I'm sorry for all the times I'm going to forget your birthday. I'm sorry for all the times I'll celebrate doing the things I've made a habit, rather than asking you what you'd like planned for the day like I would any other family member.

I'm sorry for all the meaningless things in my life. From meaningless gifts chosen, to meaningless places gone, and trivial things spoken.

Imagining your tiny childish face makes me want to be a better person. It makes me hope for even just one less sin committed that you would bear on your shoulders one day. One day you will stumble under the weight of a cross, carrying my guilt and shame. As I picture a stable and cows and imagine the smells of your birthplace, it almost hurts to wish this hard that my life, should it be well lived, could ease your burden.