My daughter turned six recently, and one of the gifts my husband and I gave her was a Bible. As I inscribed it, I had a moment of doubt: “What am I doing giving a child an ancient book that frequently features polygamy, patriarchy, and violence? And, at best, metaphors beyond our context! The Bible is really hard to understand! I’m still working through that! She’s only seen sheep once. And shepherds . . . never!” What I inscribed, however, was different and was an exercise in preaching to myself:
The ghosts of a chosen legacy
curl in rattling whispers, echoes of that
tarnished triumphal exodus rendered by the cleavage
of a foreboding sea and heralded
through the inciting song of Miriam.
The Israelite root hacked down, defiled
and tormentingly grafted in the crucible promise
of a pagan adopted daughter to a widowed Mara,
the gleaner only rescued by the bestowed favor of a kinsman redeemer,
his honor bound by the threads of marital covenant.
The tangled ancestry unfurling to seize