Wednesday, December 5, 2012

We are in winter


This is the season.  The long wait in the dark begins.  The trees are truly dead.  Branches fall and I look in wonder.  I can not believe they will breath again. I can not believe they store the life of March and months warmer.  Darkness falls before the earth can warm.  The day passes painlessly, without a moment's thought, but the devil is the repetition.

The house is closing into itself.  Our dwelling of warmth is quiet.  The chicken's cooing within the hutch in the yard, the rain patters in the desolate garden, and smell of our ever laboring oven fogs the windows.  We are done with the outside world for this year.  Ready to rest. Ready to let our leaves go.  To die for a season.  Soup, and silence.

Morning is maker for a dark night in which to begin.  Morning is the cold that must be ventured into, the rain that must be tasted. We are ready to cry a season.

Winter is dying.  The last season.  The death who does not promise to resurrect, we enter in.  Into darkness we walk without the sun set before us.  Winter is the end, the colors of last year passed, the freedom of a summer passed.  It is the giving, it is the taking, it is the end.

And all that we ran in daylight, all the roar and rush of the months behind us.  All the fire and youth and laughter, hushed.

Hushed for a season of wait,
    hushed for a moment to contemplate,
        hushed until we are outlasted by the darkness,
until silence can be stood no more.


Passion waits within the warm earth bellow.
Dawn holds its breath to rise.
The color of spring prepares to dance again.

The praise of a new morning from the cold broken hallelujah waits to erupt.  The simple birth of a savoir waits for Calvary's unity.  The life in the the dead of winter waits for the final glory.  The darkness starts the greatest story.  That when we could not hope another night.  When we could not remember warmth of sun, we remember.

How an Emanuel came in decent.
Advent
the waiting.
Until we can not dream of ascending up to Him,
can our hearts can receive without pride.
The Hope of Glory.

108 days to holy week.


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