“Elves, originally found in Germanic and Scandinavian folklore, were a very mysterious race from the beginning of time. Later they became supernatural beings, mainly shaped as human beings.”

Last night I came home and some members of my family watching the movie ‘Elf’, the silly and laugh-producing story of an adult sized yet childlike man who believes himself to be one of Santa’s elves. And this morning as I was walking I turned on my IPod to find a podcast called ‘First Elf’ told by a designer who had been hired to decorate the White House. The storyteller, who described himself as small-in-stature tells of standing by Michelle Obama,who we know to be quite tall, as she oversaw his designs for the various rooms that need to be decked with holiday cheer. It was from this experience that he came to see himself as ‘first elf’. Both are hilarious stories centering around these tiny, yet magical, beings.

I have to admit that I have not thought much about elves. Of course I have, over the years, read countless stories to our children that included the behind the scene work of elves. Not only have I not thought much about them, I find the ‘Elf on the Shelf’ being sold in some stores kind of creepy. This foot high doll like elf is a way of ‘keeping an eye out over children’s behavior in anticipation of Santa’s arrival. Yuck!

But this morning on my walk, I began to think about how the work many of us do in the church at this time of year is ‘elf work’. I thought about all the details that go into creating worship for Christmas Eve and this year for Christmas Day. I thought of the music that is found or written to illuminate the experience of these celebrations. And there are the words that are shaped with a certain flair to speak to a particular community or a specific intention for a service. There are all the bulletins to be created and printed to help people feel welcome and included and led through a communal ritual. There are floors to be cleaned and wood to be polished, flowers to be arranged and candles to be readied for lighting. So many little acts, behind the scenes acts, that go into creating a celebration of the birth of the Christ Child.

When the moment comes on Christmas Eve, we will not think much about these little details or who cared for them. We will, hopefully, be present to the music, the words, the candlelight, all coming together to remind us once again of our place in this precious story that shapes the faith of the Christian household. The ‘elves’ will have faded into the background as is their custom. Their job, to prepare the space so the story can be told and no one need miss a beat in its telling, is over.

When the space has been prepared by countless of now invisible hands, that is when our work begins. To listen for the angel’s song calling, not only Mary’s name, but our own as they ask us how we are prepared to give birth to the Holy in our time. To be as awake as the shepherds, and as courageous, willing to go to places unfamiliar in order to glimpse the fresh face of the Christ Child. To listen to our dreams, and like Joseph, allow them to guide our unfolding path. To offer our greatest gifts, as the Magi did, for the healing of the world and the hope for peace on Earth.

We can do this because the space has been prepared and we have been invited.

“For the return of the sun- blessings and praise!
For the gifts we give – and receive- blessings and praise!
For all the gift-givers – blessings and praise!
For the Children of Wonder- blessings and praise!
For children everywhere – blessings and praise!
For sunsets and starlight – blessings and praise!
For fabulous feast days – blessings and praise!
For those who cook them – blessings and praise!
For the tree in the corner – blessings and praise!
For the candles in the window – blessings and praise!
~John Matthews

The last few days have been filled with much activity and preparation, not only at church, but in our home, so much so that I have not been able to sit down to write in this space. It is that amazing time of the year when we move from the ordinary actions of our days and fill them with little moments of festivity, small and large actions of blessing and praise. We engage in traditions that have been handed down,in some cases,for generations. Some of these traditions we have even forgotten the ‘why’ of. We only know they are important to continue. Something deep inside us tells us so.

Two weeks ago, when we began moving furniture around in order to make room for the Christmas tree that now stands in the corner, I recognized how for a few days it seemed I was constantly moving one thing or another so there would be more order. At one point I laughed at myself. What do I think happens when you move a large tree into the house? Of course, things must be moved around! Of course, things must be jockeyed about until there is a new kind of order! It was important for me to remember that the evergreens we now call Christmas Trees were once brought into the house to remind humans that, though winter has descended brown all around,there is a life that continues on and, indeed, will come again. It only seems right that we might remember this, that we might make room for its wisdom, its presence in our midst.

And today, this day, is the shortest of the year, the night the longest. Winter Solstice. Around the world, in the northern hemisphere, people will celebrate and enact traditions that have been handed down by others they never knew. Many may have lost their original intention but the people gathering have that distinct knowing that they need to continue singing the songs, lighting the candles, telling the stories, honoring this recognition of light and darkness that comes to us all.

Now every morning when I get up, I come down stairs and the first thing I do is to turn on the lights on this amazing and beautiful tree that sits in our living room.I do it because it is such a blessed sight in the dark hours of early morning. I look at the way it shines forth from a corner of what is usually a fairly ordered living space, a corner that normally holds my reading chair. Its limbs hold a testament of our family’s life over 26 years. Ornaments of first Christmas celebrations and those to highlight the different interests and stages of our son’s lives. Some were created by their, then, much smaller hands. Others given as gifts, the givers remembered as they are hung on the prickly branches as if to further etch the memory of friends we may not see as often as we once did. It is truly a reminder of life lived, life renewed, the hope of life yet to be.

In these darkest days of the year, it is a good reminder and a beautiful one at that. And on this day of the Solstice, when we honor and celebrate the eternal rhythm of light and darkness, I am thankful for its steadfast wisdom that has caused me to move things around to make room for it, to embrace the beauty that arises out of chaos.

The story that grounds the Christian and Hebrew households begins with the Holy One sweeping over the formless chaos filled with darkness. Out of this God gave birth to light and we have ever since been held in the balance, the beautiful balance of light and dark. Today is a good day to remember this and to offer blessings and praise for the gifts of both. As generations have done for more years than we can imagine, let us declare that it is all very, very good.

Blessed Solstice!

“When we are alone on a starlit night, when by chance we see the migrating birds in autumn descending on a grove of junipers to rest and eat; when we see children in a moment when they are really children, when we know love in our own hearts; or when, like the Japanese poet, Basho, we hear an old frog land in a quiet pond with a solitary splash–at such times the awakening, the turning inside out of all values, the ‘newness,’ the emptiness and the purity of vision that make themselves evident, all these provide a glimpse of the cosmic dance.”
~Thomas Merton

Everyday I receive an email called Inward/Outward that has a short poem or saying to inspire my day. Sometimes I take the time to read them. Other days I find myself so caught up in the messages that demand my time and attention, that require me to do something, that I let them roll by and I catch up with them at a different time. I find that in receiving these emails, I want to be able to spend time with them, not just a quick glance while moving on to the next thing. This ends in my allowing a few to wait for a time when I can savor the words and intention of the words.

This is what happened with this quote from the works of Thomas Merton. It arrived several days ago but I just got around to being able to sit with the words this morning. While reading them I smiled. I also had the strong sense of my feet growing, getting wider, grounding me in one of the eternal lessons of the Universe. This connection with the wisdom of all Creation and our Creator, is one I long to have more often than I do. Those often tiny moments that remind me of how I am held, entwined with and actually find my identity in the cosmic dance, are longed for experiences. They are ‘wake up’ moments.

Since Advent is the season of being awake to how God is being birthed in the world, I was captured by the gift of these words. On the first Sunday of Advent, this season of the Christian year which moves us ever closer to Christmas, we heard the prophet’s words: “Stay awake!” I have been about the business of doing this over the past days. It is powerful and rewarding work if you stick to it.

Yesterday I had the privilege of gathering with many of the United Methodist clergy women that serve in various capacities in the Twin Cities area. In our introductions to one another we answered the question: “How have you seen the Face of God over these Advent days?” It was a rich time of sharing story, of being witness to this cosmic dance of which we are all a part, even when we don’t take the time or do not have the courage to be present to it. Stories were told that made us laugh and cry, that made us nod our heads in affirmation and shake our heads in disbelief. Through it all the palpable experience of the Spirit grew larger and larger in the room. We were all connecting once again to a lifeline of bringing to mind the movement of the Holy in our midst. It was a profound time.

Many times we are caught by the Spirit. Experiences we had nothing to do with show up in our lives and we are surprised by this Presence we had forgotten to notice. Other times we place ourselves and assemble the best possible ingredients for walking onto the dance floor with the Sacred. But the truth is it is happening all the time.If we are awake. If we choose to pay attention and remember to listen for the music and get moving, no matter how awkward or graceful our steps.

So, I will ask you the same question: How have you seen the Face of God over the last weeks? How have you handed your dance card to this Love that will not let you go, that wants to lead you in a waltz for all time? I invite you to reflect, remember and then tell someone or respond to this post so we all can allow their beauty to wash over us and ground us with big feet that will firmly plant us on this holy Earth.

Keep these stories pouring into a world so longing to be healed. A world so hoping to dance the cosmic dance.

“We see the signs
but cannot always
divine their meanings.
You call us to move forward
not always knowing
whether what we grasp
in our hands
will prove to be
a seed of hope
or a thorn in our flesh.
Train our fingers,
that what brings life
we may with persistence hold,
and that which wastes
our souls
we may with grace release.”
~Jan L. Richardson

Isn’t amazing how often we choose to do things that leave us lifeless? Whether it is the simple, daily activities that can chip away at our spirits or the toxic, human encounters that leave us blistered and burned, it is sometimes very difficult to turn away, to instead choose what brings life. To choose a new, a different way of walking in the world. This being human is a curious thing. A complex thing. A holy thing.

Which is why when my eyes beheld these words of Jan Richardson today in her Advent book Night Visions, I was drawn to this poem tucked into the fourth week of this path toward Christmas. Certainly the scriptures we have read in worship have spoken about signs, ways we know that the Holy is on the move in the world, on the road in our lives. Even our lives. But it is often difficult to ‘divine’ the meanings of the word of a stranger spoken in a tone hushed enough to be an angel voice. Or the glimpse out of the corner of an eye of something that seems to call to us in ways that nudge at something deep in our heart. Or even the out-right booming voice that wakes us up to what we love or causes tears to spring in the corners of our eyes that feels like something more than an ordinary voice, more than an every day encounter. Are these signs? Signs of the presence of God?

The stories that shape Advent are all about bringing life. The life of a new born infant. The life that inspires shepherds to leave their flocks, their livelihood, and travel to unknown places. The life that is grabbed, that ask a young woman to give birth to the Holy in her time. The vibrant life-changing voice of an angel, speaking the truth. The life that must have been challenged in an older man who finds himself confounded by the woman to whom he has promised his life. The sacrifice of lives that chose to pay attention to stars that led them into the deepest desert.

If nothing else, Advent invites us, even challenges us to reflect on what brings life. What stirs within us, at the place where the Spirit dances, calling us to the ‘more’? How is the Holy calling to us, just as once happened to Mary, to be birthers? What signs are being made known to us that we are ignoring or are even invisible to our distracted eyes?

The rush toward Christmas Day has begun. It is easy to get caught up in the flurry of activity and the downward spiral of ceaseless movement. If we stick with the wise rhythm of Advent we will ‘train our fingers’ to hold with persistence what brings life, the precious gift of these days.

May we be held by the gift of patience, of waiting, and of being open to signs of the Divine that travel with us. Even when we cannot see.

” When God restored the fortunes of Zion, we were like those who dreamed.”
~ Psalm 126 

Today I had a truly freaky experience. I was running errands for some church related Christmas items. I had stopped off at Bachman’s to check out some things I had seen online that might help spruce up the sanctuary decorations. According to the online descriptions they also happened to be on sale. So, ever the frugal shopper, I nipped in to see these items first hand.

After a successful purchase, I stopped by the cafe for a late afternoon cup of tea before heading back to church for an evening event. I took my tea and a section of the newspaper someone had abandoned, found a nice, quiet table surrounded by the oxygen and humidity producing plants in this lovely cafe, and settled in. I was reading a letter to the editor, entitled ‘Imagine’. The writer was honoring John Lennon whose death is remembered on December 8th. Using some of the inspiring and challenging lyrics of his music, she was urging parents to pay careful attention to the ways in which we parent because, indeed, we have the power to change the world.

That’s when it happened. On the subtle Musak playing just below a conscious level, I heard not, the 100th playing of ‘ Feliz Navidad’ or even the 1000th hearing of ‘I’ll be Home for Christmas’. No, playing ever so gently was the sweet, sensual voice of John Lennon singing…….’Imagine’.

I looked around. Was this some kind of joke? What were the odds of reading about the song and then hearing it randomly being played in these airwaves so saturated with constant Christmas music? I sat very still and listened to the words I know so well. ” You may say I’m a dreamer. But I’m not the only one. Someday you’ll join us and the world will live as one.”

This song has always held such hope for me. All Lennon sings about seems so simple yet so elusive. As I sat there still dumbfounded by the synchronicity of this, I thought of our church’s theme: We Are Those Who Dream. Yesterday in worship, we read Psalm 126, which holds the inspiration for this theme. I thought about how often I pay lip service to the power and gift of dreaming. But do I really practice it? Do I really allow myself to be lifted above the cynicism that is rampant in our culture and, like Lennon, be a dreamer? Do you?  And why not?

Perhaps my spirit, like so many, has been deflated by unrealized dreams. Or perhaps it often seems so much more expedient to make a list of the jobs that need to be done, be about doing them,and checking them off my list, chalking it all up as success. Isn’t this what we are rewarded for doing? Is anybody really rewarded for dreaming any more?

I thought of what I once dreamed of doing, of being. A ballerina. An actress. A peacemaker. A cowgirl. A nurse. A music teacher. A weaver. A collage artist. Someone who rallied people for ‘saving the world’. A travel writer. So many dreams.

Of course, I have dreamed many things that have come to fruition. Being a wife and mother. Being a minister. Having what I’ve written published. Making music often with people I love. Traveling to places that inspire me. Being given the privilege of walking the spiritual journey with so many.

Dreaming is, I believe, what makes the world go round and move forward. It is what helps us imagine what we can be and what might be. It is what helps us paint a picture of what God hopes for us and then walk into it. It is what allows us to envision a better world, a safer world, a more peaceful world. A place where ‘the world will live as one.’

Somehow I also believe that is what this season of Advent and Christmas is all about. Dreaming of the promise of a tiny child to transform the world. Dreaming of parents who nurture and guide. Dreaming of the inherent value of each human being. Dreaming of the invisible lines of connection that bind us all together. Dreaming of the hope of healing the world.

Imagine. Just imagine.

And Mary held
the infant
In her arms
new to the world,
fresh gift of her
labored body.

As it was in the beginning
is now and ever shall be
world without end.
Amen

I wrote this poem for the church’s Advent devotional this year. I titled it ‘Mary’s Dreaming’ but the truth of the matter is, the words are what I believe most mothers dream at some conscious level or one that floats below the surface of their knowing. At a Christmas gathering on Wednesday, another person read the poem aloud and affirmed that, indeed, this is what she has longed for her own children, now all grown up, and far from that time when they can be swaddled and held safe. It was an honor to have it read but also to have it affirmed that my instinct was a common one.

Yesterday, our younger son turned twenty-one, a milestone for all number of reasons. Though at eighteen, he could vote which is a signal of adulthood, twenty-one is the age the majority in our culture see as truly be a grown up. And he is. It has been amazing to watch him mature, to see his new found confidence and his love of the precious world around him. To be present to the emergence of another human being may be the greatest gift there is, whether you are parent, grandparent, teacher, neighbor. Whatever the relationship, to be present and observe another discover their gifts, understand their limitations, know what brings them joy and what crushes them, watch them overcome challenges and achieve success, is a privilege beyond comprehension or articulation.

As I reflected yesterday on the immense gift this young man has been in my life, I remembered a statement my mother made when his older brother was born. “From this day on, you will always be a parent.”, she said in all her ever-present wisdom. I knew what she meant and it took my breath away, caused me to shake a bit. No matter the age-infant, toddler, teenage, adult- I would always be a mother. I would always have some small part of my brain and my heart tuned to where my children were. I would always have concern, hope, dreams, and love for them. And, of course, as always, she has been exactly right.

In a few weeks we will gather and read the Christmas story. Children will don white robes and angels wings. Others will cover their heads with brown scarves and carry shepherd’s crooks. The older, taller chosen three will get to wear crowns and carry bejeweled boxes. All on their way to honor the Christ Child. There will be laughter and tears all wrapped up in the gift of memory and promise.

But I will listen with my mother ears for my favorite line in the story: ” And Mary kept all these things and pondered them in her heart.”

“Glory be to you, O God of the night,
for the whiteness of the moon
and the infinite stretches of dark space.
Let me be learning to love the night
as I know and love the day.
Let me be learning to trust its darkness
and to seek its subtle blessings.
Let me be learning the night’s way of seeing
that in all things I may trace the mystery
of your presence.”
~J. Philip Newell

The coldness of winter has, opened the door, walked in and taken up residence in Minnesota. This has made for incredibly clear nights, a vast expanse of dark blue sky which holds a brilliant moon longing for fullness. Last night as I drove home, the darkness having descended hours before, I felt the pull of that moon. Over the weekend, it will become a glistening, white orb shining its wholeness on us. If we are about the work of staying awake in these Advent days, we would do well to take notice. To stop what is driving us.To pay attention to what fullness might look like. To listen to our own longing for wholeness. Even in the midst of deep darkness.

I still held that image of last night’s sky when I read these words of John Philip Newell this morning. I thought of how the moon seemed so beautiful last night, not because of the light, but because of the dark sky which surrounded it. The contrast made both the night sky and the evolving moon more than either could be alone. It is something to be reminded of, I think, something to ponder not only in these days before the full moon but also in this season when we speak of ‘waiting for the light’. Or as we in the Christian household often say:”Waiting for the Light.”

As I read this prayer as a part of my morning practice, what captured my attention was the phrase ‘let me be learning’. Perhaps it does not sound so unusual with Newell’s Scottish accent. But I can say definitively that I may never have spoken the words ‘let me be learning.’ That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have said it or that I certainly shouldn’t have done all it implies.

When I think of my experiences of Advent, there are so many times I would have been well served by saying aloud to myself or others such things as ‘let me be learning’ to listen more deeply and speak less often. Let me be learning to open myself to the movement of the Holy, not only in the lights and tinsel, but in the dirt and grime along the sidewalks. Let me be learning to let go of the need to create the perfect Christmas for my family or others. Let me be learning to notice the looks on the faces of children and breathe in their wonder and anticipation. Let me be learning to look for one small way the unfolding story of the Christ Child’s birth still holds hope for me. Let me be learning to take more moments to be restful and fewer to be in motion. Let me be learning how this season urges me to allow the presence of God to be born in my life, in my living.

All of these learnings hold the gifts of both darkness and light. They are illuminated and shadowed to create a fullness that, in the end, can only be experienced in the presence of these contrasts. I cannot work hard enough, plan adequately or force the wholeness by trying to shine more light or by hiding in the darkness. This is pure mystery.

Let me be learning to understand this.

” God is a great underground river that no one can dam up and no one can stop.”
~Meister Eckhart, 13th century mystic

Over the last several days I have been watching the river freeze. On my morning drive into the church, I have been aware of the slow, yet deliberate, ice that has been forming on the Mississippi River. For those of you who might think this ranks right up there with watching paint dry or grass grow, I beg to differ.

First of all, more than a week ago there were small, circular groupings of ice pieces. They seemed to want to hang out together in the middle of the river. The ice floes moved downriver with a slow, meditative pace. I am sure there was some ice at the edges of the river but for the most part the ice was gathered in these little mandalas of frozen water moving in a Zen-like fashion.

Today, everything was much different. Vast sections of the river now are covered with a solid sheet of ice. What is interesting is that these icy sheets are mostly at the bends of the river. The curves that make up the landscape between Minneapolis and St. Paul are punctuated with glistening ice that moves swiftly into moving water. I have no idea why the ice freezes in this particular way. But I am fascinated by the pattern and process.

As I was cruising along this morning, one eye on the road, careful of the slick spots caused by this weekend’s snowfall, and the other on the process of ice formations, I began to think about the strength of the still flowing water beneath and between this ice. This is a mighty river and I have seen its force and fury many times. Certainly that same power is still present. It has just collided with other powerful forces. Things like temperature, sunlight, darkness, the rhythm of the seasons.

All this ice-gazing, of course, caused me to think of how sometimes in my life things seem to be frozen in time. Or at least at a standstill with ice forming and knocking about and into my best laid plans. In those paths that have taken a turn this way or that, something powerful moves in and paralyzes whatever dream I held or hope that had such promise. These circumstances seem to derail, not only my action, but my spirit. Does this at all sound familiar to you?

But what I often forget at frozen times like these is that there is a powerful strength that moves beneath all the icy formations. Perhaps the curves or twists have held something captive and stopped me in my tracks but the breath, the creative spark, the sheer will, still moves around and past whatever is frozen in me. Sometimes it is only a matter of relaxing into the moment, of not forcing something that is not yet ready to be born. Other times it is the wisdom to hitch myself to ‘the Great Underground River’ that the Christian mystic Meister Eckhart speaks of. To allow my hopes and dreams to be carried by a force greater than myself.

At some point very soon all traffic on the river will be halted for the winter. Come to think of it, this may already have happened. I have not seen a barge making its way up or down the river for some time. When that time comes, the only prudent and logical thing to do is to stop and wait for the right moments of spring to begin to move the waters once again. The rhythm of this resting and waiting is firmly embedded in the wisdom of the way the world works.

Until then my work and the river’s is to learn from what has come to a standstill and to remember the powerful current that flows beneath and within.

“If you have ever had occasion to be out early in the morning before the dawn breaks, you will have noticed that the darkest time of night is immediately before dawn. The darkness deepens and becomes more anonymous. If you had never been to the world and never known what a day was, you couldn’t possibly imagine how the darkness breaks, how the mystery and color of a day arrive. Light is incredibly generous, but also gentle. When you attend to the way the dawn comes, you learn how light can coax the dark. The first fingers of light appear on the horizon, and ever so deftly and gradually, they pull the mantle of darkness away from the world. Quietly before you is the mystery of a new dawn, the new day.”
~John O’Donohue, Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom

At a meeting I attended last night, our convener began the meeting with this reading. Afterwards I headed home and went straight for this book to reread these beautiful and evocative sentences. I was so struck with them, not only for their poetry, but because I had spent the hour or so before the meeting sitting in a cafe watching this very movement of light and darkness. I had watched the seemingly quick descending of the darkness of the day. I had watched the sky go from pale blue to shades of crimson and orange(where does that come from?) as it moved into a deep, velvety blue. The only contrast was the brilliant white of the waxing moon. The whole process had seemed like an experience of watching an enormous painting being created before my very eyes.

‘If I had never been to the world and had not known what a day was’, what might I have thought was happening? This is a concept that is nearly impossible to get your head around. And yet, in my observation, I was as clueless to the miracle of beauty that was happening as I might have been if I had never been to the world. All I could do is what humans, I believe, were created to do: observe, gasp, wonder, praise. It is the work of psalmists from the beginning of our walking-upright position in the world.

In this northern hemisphere we are walking in the darkest days. We may try to ward it off or enhance its beauty with colorful light displays that adorn homes and buildings everywhere. These holiday displays only make the darkness more pronounced. But the profound darkness also makes the lights more magical. Light and darkness are indeed strange, yet imperative, dance partners.

John O’Donohue also points out the very mysterious way in which the arrival of light in the morning is preceded by the very darkest time of the night. It is as if the Universe is saying: “Watch this. This is how dark it can really get.” All this to make us even more appreciative of the light’s arrival.

Of course, light is both reality and metaphor. We speak of people who bring light to our lives. In this season of Advent we speak of the Christ Child who will come to bring light to the world. What might we learn about the light and darkness of our days by remembering how light and dark actually work and dance with one another? Is there comfort in our knowing, in our understanding? Or does this knowledge bring on a greater fear of darkness, a more desperate longing for light?

My sense is that the answers to these questions are shaped by individual experience more than a common one. But for those who are in what they feel are the darkest days, my prayer is for a memory of the miraculous working of light. The ‘darkest before the dawn’ knowledge. And for those who are standing in the light, my prayer is for an appreciation of the gifts of both darkness and light. Those dancing partners which surround us at all times, pulling us in, spinning us, moving us gracefully and often with fits and starts. All the while holding us in the gentle and gracious Light of Holy Presence.

May it always be so. Blessed be.

“Made from earth I am
and in love with the ground,
but this urging persists,
an aching where you etched
onto tendons muscles bone nerve
a longing for leaping
a yearning to soar.”
~ Jan L. Richardson

This afternoon has been spent rifling through books looking for poetry and readings for several upcoming worship services. Anyone walking by my office must have been reminded of Bob Cratchitt bent over his desk, focused on the stacks of coins he counted for Ebeneezer Scrooge. Instead of coins, I was surrounded by books tipped open and laying askew. I think my hair may have even been a little wild where I had run my hands through it in a desperate search for the perfect expression of an Advent Sunday or Christmas Eve or Day, which happens to fall on a Sunday this year. It will be a busy 24 hours!

I was looking for phrases that expressed ‘dreaming’ to illuminate our church theme of “We Are Those Who Dream”. In my page flipping, my eyes fell on the poem above. While it did not really fit the theme, it caught my attention and I read it aloud to no one in particular but myself. It seemed to suit my mood, my frame of mind.

It snowed overnight, you see, and that always stirs something of the creative spirit within me. I know that to many people this seems odd. Creativity is for warm weather, for lazy summer days when you can loll about allowing fresh ideas to spring up like blooming flowers popping up all around. Creativity is for September, when that school-gene gets resurrected, as the possibilities of a new year of learning are underway. Creativity is not for cold, dark, snowy days when morning comes too late and evening too soon.

But the creative spirit almost always creeps into my life in the first days of cold and snow. For me, there is something about rising early and seeing the palette of deep, blue sky punctuated with tiny, glittering stars. Yesterday, as I fetched the morning newspaper from the stoop, I stood outside in my pajamas staring up at the morning’s arrival. A plane moved quickly across the middle distance, its light competing with the stationary, shining stars. A satellite moved slowly in a meditative pattern between the silver-light of distant stars. I breathed in the cold air, allowing my lungs to fill with its freshness, and exhaled my visible presence back into the day, signing on for being alive yet again.

Perhaps it is this kind of recognition that overcomes me and keeps me ‘in love with the ground’, that makes me incredibly thankful for being made of earth. Perhaps it is this loving that also nudges at the urging, the aching to leap with the joy of the gift of life and a yearning to make the most of this blessed miracle of walking in the world. Perhaps it is this Advent season that keeps me always on watch for how the Holy is filling the empty spaces or the overstuffed moments of my day. That habit God has of taking something plain and ordinary and filling it with More.

Whatever it is, I am grateful for it. For this persistent Creator that breathed me into being and holds me with a love that will not let me go. Not in summer. Not in spring or autumn. And certainly not in the early days of winter when the cold calls like a siren from the lakes that are icing over all around.

And what about you? What is yearning to soar within you these Advent days? How is the One who is ‘etched onto your tendon muscle bone nerve’ moving in your life?

May blessings abound from darkness of morning till darkness of night.