We are told —
in words as old as the soil beneath our feet —
that the Son of God,
bearing the unmeasured fullness of divinity,
took off His glory
and wore human skin.
Philippians whispers this to us:
made himself nothing.
A phrase we can speak
but not easily live.

It is hard to lower ourselves,
hard to give away the bright coins
of praise and possession.
Our hands are too eager to close,
our hearts too full of ourselves.

I walk into the yard
and wonder
if the tulip poplar knows how tall it is.
Does the tree stand in self-congratulation
for the work of its rings?
Does it count the years?
No —
it lifts its limbs to the sun
because that is what it was given to do.

The quail —
that quick brown prayer against dry ground,
does not question whether
its small life
matters enough to go on.

The river bends without pride
around the land’s old shoulder —
quieting itself at dusk,
calming the surface
so stones beneath can be seen.

But I —
I measure,
I store up,
I hunger for applause
even when preaching surrender.

Yet Christ,
who could hold all things in His grasp,
released them —
took the low place —
obeyed —
even to death.

And perhaps
this is the one slow lesson
we must learn from all that lives quietly:
that humility isn’t pretending
to be smaller than we are,
but maybe finally believing
we are loved enough
to stop trying so hard to earn it.