Speak

I look at my Littlest across the table, in our sunset golden dining room.

"I love you," I say.

"I know."

"You know? How do you know? Is it only because I tell you I love you?"

"I don't think so."

"How do you know?"

"You hug me. And you kiss me. You're kind to me..." she smiles.

"Most of the time I'm kind to you."

"Most of the time," she says and moves into my lap. Her head is on my shoulder.

"Except when I'm crabby."

"Except when you're crabby."

"And tired. Sometimes when I'm tired, I'm not kind. Or when I'm just crabby."

"Or when you're in a hurry," she smiles.

"When I'm in a hurry?" I pause. She is looking at me straight on, not blinking, not turning. Looking at me straight on. "When I'm in a hurry... I should work on that, I guess..."

"Maybe if you want to," she touches my arm, kisses my cheek.

Out of the mouths of babes, You speak to me. Out of the mouths of babes, you ordain not only praise, but also truth, to silence the enemy and the avenger. Out of the mouths of babes, my Child, you speak. And touch my soul.

Unfolding

Each night brings something new, as I run on broken sidewalks, past houses, in the cold.

Here is a wreath with a bright red bow, where yesterday stood an empty door. And here, a wire reindeer, grounded, grazing, lit white. I round the corner to meet a smiling snow man and his smiling snow woman, bound in a globe where snow falls onto their carrot noses. Along the weathered grey of a picket fence, white lights create a contour I did not notice on other nights.

Garlands and bows, gingerbread men hung from a roof line. Spiral Christmas trees that look like lost cones from a child's giant double-scoop ice cream. Simple, single candles in quiet windows. A star of Bethlehem hanging from a tree.

Each night brings something new. It is a slow unfolding towards Your birth, the remembrance of Your birth.

Come, my Child, unfold yourself in me.

Peace Candle

It is Advent. And a woman is talking about the peace candle. Lighting it. The plum taper is a rich vision of expectation. Everything feels cozy and right.

I'm holding a small cup of water in my left hand. My littlest is on my lap. Her amber curls are brushing against my chin. I can smell the warm, earthy fragrance of her skin. Everything feels cozy and right.

And now my littlest is flipping her hair or stretching with a quick gesture. I don't know what she's doing. What is she doing?! She hits the cup. Flips it. The water is all over me now. Cold, going through my dressy black pants. Water dripping down my arms, threatening towards my elbows. I'm glaring at my littlest. Colder than the cup of water, spilled.

The glare does its work. She slips off my lap, retreats into my spouse's arms.

Now the woman has finished talking about the peace candle. She's praying. Giving us a moment for confession.

And this is my Advent. Nothing feels cozy, nothing feels right. I am not at peace. I am a woman who glares at her child while the peace candle flickers, burns. And this is my Advent.