The Babe will soon be carried away, wrapped delicate for another Christmas return and celebration will retreat to boxes and hide in darkness.
Each year is like rediscovering forgotten pieces. Fragile things we store up, preserve for memories and remembrance of our own clay-self preserved by more than Birth.
Each year is like rediscovering forgotten pieces. Fragile things we store up, preserve for memories and remembrance of our own clay-self preserved by more than Birth.
Somewhere between here and spring, for those sojourners of re-Birth who labor the pangs of Return, we'll celebrate the first one. Resurrection's day awaits a time far removed in winter months but a day some call Easter.
I imagine the ultimate Christmas let-down was wintered in those hours and few days after Christ died and His people grieved in spiritual darkness. No palm branches to greet Him, just deep mourning over a delicately wrapped Body hidden by a tomb.
A bright season had passed, the stone closed, and the Disciples waited for whatever was next. They huddled behind doors with death pangs of labored prayer.
Today the sun gives a false sense of warmth and I'm stoking a fire in our stove. Brightness belies the cold outside but will eventually give way to humid heat in season. But for now, naked and barren landscapes speak of loss.
Loss of light on shortened days, loss of clothed trees left naked by absent leaves, loss of color by dormant meadows browning in rest, and loss of heat by winter air which pushes us inside. The Babe is soon packed away 'til next and we're left with winter. The months ahead will hold longing for warmth and new life.
His word laid dormant in that space between the Old and the New. Those testaments of life foreshadowing Eternity and Him breaking winter's deadness.
Winter is a hard pressing for Light.
I've found ornaments in purple, pink, and crimson orange, being hung now. Like spring buds preparing tree-ly garments, His praise skirts the sky.
I've found heaven across Texas when light slips the edge. It's like a tethered line which is drummed Heaven-taut and wraps me like an ozone etching wonder.
Elizabeth felt John the Baptist jump in her womb by the nearness of Mary's own womb of Christ. I feel the flutter in nature's groaning.
Being a Christian is like clay feet walking in Heaven-shod shoes, like a torch carrying Flame to wintered souls, like a provided heat of Holy consuming which gathers inside Christ to weather any season.
We are marked.
We are inked in Eternity, like a sky speaks of Heaven, like a tattoo visibly marks the flesh and pierces a Kingdom straight through us and decorates Heaven on earth by skin. And I'm waiting for all things to be made new.
"..If the ministry of death, written and engraved on stones, was glorious, so that the children of Israel could not look steadily at the face of Moses because of the glory of his countenance, which glory was passing away, how will the ministry of the Spirit not be more glorious?" 2 Corinthian 3: 7, 8 (NKJ)
(All pictures taken on our farm. The green one was at night when our leave burning produced a stalled smoke, from a lack of wind, over our pecan tree and was back lit by our outside light.)
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Let's share. Because of time-management, most days I don't reply to comments. But every precious one feels like we're at the table chatting. Sometimes they're read in the oddest of places, via my phone. And if you blog, I can assure you, I looked you up and lurked your words.