The Christmas story celebrates the birth of sacrificial love. Nevertheless, as celebrants, we tend to contaminate the purity of this season with unattainable expectations, expectations of: peaceful family gatherings, magazine worthy decor, “Bon Appetite” type food fare, and happy, grateful, tantrum-free children.
I’ve been thinking about Mary, the mother of Jesus lately during this Advent season.
My faith family is starting on our Christmas Advent journey. We are in transition from our daily routines, looking forward together to Jesus’ birthday.
After a Monday fall cool-down shower, I’m watching the dance of amber leaves and sun-kissed butterflies.
As I’m obviously aging, I want to be like an old book whose value and beauty rest in its hombre edged faded pages, whose skin cover isn’t quite as vibrant and alluring as it once was, whose binding joining each consecutive chapter creaks and cracks when opened, and whose wisdom surfaces in washed out, underlined passages.
November and December are the months in which we think about journeying home.