. . . the darkness covered the face of the deep . . .
As we journey into the literal dark of the northern winter, we are asked to embrace that which has been declared worthless. Darkness. Rest. Waiting.
I just spent twenty-four hours without power due to a winter storm (put the sympathy away...we had heat and could cook). As night fell, we began lighting candles. A tray on the counter lit the sink so I could wash dishes (with no hot water, so perhaps a wee-bit of sympathy). A twin pair of candles set in front of a mirror lit the hallway. A trio of pillar candles lit the bathroom. Before the last rays of sunlight faded from the heavy gray sky, I walked from room to room leaving canning jars and tea lights behind me. I opened the blinds to let in the few scraps of light, multiplied by the reflective snow, and tidied up the walkways. This would be a dark night.
It was gorgeous. Not just the candle light, but the dimming of the day into night. The process of evening. The gentle arrival of night.
With the drawing in of night I was invited into repose. A candle light dinner with dear friends. A fireside chat. An early bedtime. As I washed my face by the light of a single candle, previously so ornamental that it was dusty, gasping at the cold of the water (viscerally thankful that we had water), I felt held. Embraced. Tucked-in. Loved. Settled. But not by the candle-light. By the darkness.
How often we resist rest. From our infant-unwillingness to give-in to sleep and child-need for a drink, a different story, to-tell-you-one-thing, just one thing...to our adult caffeinated, digitized commitment to wakefulness. We seem to hate to rest while constantly complaining that we are tired. Advent can be the most unrestful season with its Holiday Parties and dance recitals and year-end business meetings, but what if Advent is whispering through the darkness of the early night...come, rest, wait with me.
“What time will you be here?”
“The map says I will be there at 2:38.”
Reheat contents for one minute.
Check one-day delivery at check-out, if you need it sooner.
We don’t wait well. But here we are, in Advent, waiting. The question is what are we waiting for? What are you waiting for? A brith? Surely not the birth of a two thousand and eighteen year old baby. Surely this birth is happening here, among us—in us. This birth is an incarnation of love, born in me, born in you, moving, together, into the twilight.