A Lonesome Mouse on Christmas

A little poem I wrote for my children's sermon, Christmas Eve 2020.
sad mickey mouse

A Lonesome Mouse on Christmas

by Katie Langston

A long time ago,
In a land far away,
There lived a small mouse
Who was always afraid.

His ears were too big.
His feet were too small.
His clothing was tattered.
His face like a pall.

He did all he could
To never be seen,
For he knew when he did
Other mice would be mean.

They would not share their cheese
Or their bread or their treats,
They would mock him and tease him
And wouldn’t save seats.

Well, at least, he assumed
They would scorn and offend.
He couldn’t be sure—
He didn’t have friends.

To be clear, there were those
Who invited him over,
But he always refused.
He liked being a loner.

He just couldn’t risk it!
What if they said
He was smelly or stupid
Or had too small a head!

So he lived in a barn,
By himself, in the hay,
Hiding far from the cats
And the donkeys who brayed

Much too loud for his tastes;
He preferred all things still,
For the noise gave him headaches
And upset his chill.

One night…

As ice crept up the windows like
A whispering sound
And the winter wind blew
Sheets of snow to the ground

This small, tiny mouse,
Huddled in his small bed,
Dreamed of goblin-like fingers
That filled him with dread.

With the night lurching on
For what felt like forever,
And his hand clutching covers,
Teeth clacking together,

He thought, Oh, this darkness!
Will it ever be light?
Will the morning time come?
Will I be all right?

And what he couldn’t admit,
Though he knew in his bones,
Was that the cold went much deeper
Than the winter alone.

It wasn’t the weather,
It was his heart.
He had cut off the world,
Had held back every part

Of himself from all others,
Lest they hurt or betray.
He wished now that he hadn’t,
But it was too late.

And just when he decided
That there was no hope
The sound of a bell
Tinkled on the end of a rope,

And through the worn slats
Of the wall of his room
He caught sight of a woman
With belly in bloom—

A woman, he saw,
Whose eyes looked so kind
He thought of his mother’s,
How they sparkled and shined.

He crawled out of his bed.
He didn’t know why,
Except it was warmer near her,
Though the storm filled the sky.

Just then, she cried out,
And he rushed to be with her,
Even though, as a mouse,
He could hardly assist her.

A man by her side
Held her hand as she breathed,
And a rush of life flowed,
Warm and soft underneath.

He heard a loud wailing,
Which should have annoyed him,
But one look at the boy’s face
Filled his eyes to the brim.

She held him so close to her breast
That he wept
Thinking of his own mother,
And how he’d been bereft

When he’d lost her.
And how after that day
He’d decided he’d never again
Give his own heart away.

But looking at them,
He let it all go.
He could love, he could give.
The babe made it so.

He had brothers and sisters,
Aunts, uncles, and cousins.
He would visit tomorrow.
He’d make calls by the dozens.

He went back to bed,
All snuggly and warm,
For knew he would never
Give in to the storm.

His eyes fluttered closed,
Dreaming of how well love pleases,
As the woman cooed softly,
“I will call your name Jesus.”

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