I am reminded again of all I need, again, to be reminded. The many things I have been told, have heard, have sewn together, have known, and without quite forgetting need to be told, hear, stitch and know again.
That, like my nephew, Jesus was adopted.
That caught up in a swirling, chorused night, the shepherds witnessed pure love freshly born and walked home after to overtime with slow and sleeping creatures endlessly in need of care.
That, like me, Mary was afraid.
That while one family escaped in the night, lucky to have gold and precious balms to sell for fare, others scrubbed their sons’ blood from the floors.
That there were soldiers.
That soldiers also bleed.
That wisdom can come from afar, in the night, to ask what another’s scriptures say.
That a king can forget his own scriptures and remain a king. That wisdom can slip away, in the night, with no notice at all.
That the animals are our companions.
That even rags, thoughtfully prepared, can be enough.
That taxed and traveling with nothing to insure him, my brother stands beside Joseph.
That dependent on a man for everything to sustain her child, my aunt is Mary’s sister. That a weird cousin can make a way.
That “How can I know?” is a question outside of faith.
That “How can this be?” is not.
That a good man begins making God’s dream the moment he awakens.
That a great woman is not afraid to be amazed.
That the old who keep watching can find joy.
That the young who keep tradition can find affirmation.
That a crazy old poet might be right.
That Advent is the beginning of the waiting of beginning. A noun and verb; a thing and action.
The quantum of creation, particle and wave.
That God said, in the beginning, let there be light.
That he’s saying it still.
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