Advent.
The quiet
inconspicuous moments.
Where the miracle is birthed.
Where we make space
to behold
the newborn King.
There is nothing flashy or hurried about it.
In fact,
We must retreat from the hustle.
From the tinsel and ribbon.
To meet Him,
to greet Him.
To behold
the newborn King.
In the mess of the hay.
Among the humble
and meek.
To quiet our hearts
and hush our voices
as you do
when the miracle of new birth
is in your midst.
To behold His fragility
and honour His majesty.
Where all is calm
and all is bright.
Where comfort and joy become your own.
Right in this moment.
In the midst of your mess,
come and behold Him.
Just as you are.
This is Advent.
I stand staring at our Christmas tree.
The scent of pine filling the air.
The crinoline under my Christmas dress
itching my small three year old legs.
I stand on tip toe
to behold Him.
The tiny wooden ornament.
The creche on our tree.
The choir sings in harmony
on our family record player:
All is calm,
all is bright.
In this moment,
in my three year old way,
I make space.
This is Advent.
Years later,
my childhood wonder faded and frayed
through the harsh filter of adulthood.
I trudge through the slushy mess
of the city streets
in the December darkness.
Carrying heavy bags of shiny gifts in my hands
and a heavy heart of overwhelm in my chest.
As I let out a sigh,
I catch a glimpse of light to my right.
I stop and watch
with wonder.
The light piercing this dark night
illuminating the wooden creche
displayed on the front stoop of the church.
I breathe.
I behold the delicately painted face
of the newborn King.
I hear myself humming
something old and familiar:
All is calm,
all is bright…
In this moment
I make space.
This is Advent.
Years later,
the babe in my lap,
of my flesh and blood,
stares at the babe in the manger.
With wonder.
What is it? I ask.
It’s the baby Jesus! He proudly declares.
And what is He doing? I probe, while pointing to the painted creche.
He’s resting, he whispers
in his three year old lispy sweetness.
I watch him
while he watches the Christ child.
I hold my sweet boy
as he beholds the miracle of Christmas.
Unconsciously I begin to hum an old familiar tune:
All is calm,
all is bright…
In this moment
we make space.
This is Advent.
Where we get quiet
in the expectant waiting.
Where comfort and joy become our own.
In our wonder.
Where the light pierces our darkest of corners.
Where all is calm
and all is bright.
As we make space
and behold the miracle
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