That grey is my favorite color and MUST be spelled with an “e”.
And rain is my favorite weather and must be had with a warm cup of black tea. (I made a rhyme!)
I love not getting “dressed” and won’t do so unless I’ve got to leave the house, but I’m no less productive for that – I just don’t see the point in not being as comfortable as possible and anyway, that’s why God made slippers and fuzzy robes. (I’m gonna go ahead with a little TMI and say: it’s a darn good thing I married the one and only Mr. Austin Morrison because for some unfathomable reason he thinks I’m the sexiest thing this side of the Milky Way, even when I’m decked all the way down.)
I love walking and I love walking and I love walking. My legs put on loads of miles and land each step with so much purpose that I’ve burned holes in the bottoms of my third pair of athletic shoes in 9 months.
I love paradoxes and paradigms shifts, fairytales and fireplace flames.
I love mysticism and mystery and magic.
I love dance parties, oddities and the off-color.
But this short list of “loves” doesn’t compare to how much I love Advent. Of all the seasons and holidays, Advent is my ambrosia; the elixir of my every year. The time and space I anticipate with all my hungry and thirsty places. I approach Advent and will use every trick and tool I’ve got to make it go slower and stiller and silenter than all the other days on the calendar. I would have the three weeks go on for three years if it weren’t for the fact that it might mean less if we could enjoy it all the time.
So we curled around the cracking hearth flames on a Sunday, our little five-heart huddle, and we welcomed her in with all the breath our collective spirits could muster. Breath and fire and candle lighting, oh my sweet baby Jesus. We are your midwives and I am completely consumed by “coming” and I would pour myself all over an ancient manger. Pour myself out, even though the thought of showing the world my love for you feels at least 6 million kinds of vulnerable, as if I were the one spreading my legs for all the world to see while pushing the crown of God’s head into the hay. But, if ever there is time and space for vulnerability it’s the Christmas season, the very act of incarnation…of Christ coming to us bloody and naked invokes all the worshippers to come as bare and displayed as possible before the flesh-born King.
I’ve had 32 revolutions around this one stable and at least 10 of them I have beseeched to the Baby therein, “How much deeper can we go this year?” And this is how I begin to deck my heart, with curiosity and fervor and a longing for the provocative nature of this story to mix with my claret-red cells and run rampant all over my veins like some sort of Divine drug. Every moment of Advent-to-Christmas tastes like an aphrodisiac and I am eating the moments for the immortal food that it is. With my tongue rolling around all the flavors of a Newborn, no wonder I burst with more merry and leak more tears then every other orbiting day.
I want more.
I want more.
I want more.
I want more.
If ever it was okay to be greedy for Someone.
And why, again, did You come like this? The question is rhetorical of course, but must be said for the ache of not being able to wrap my head around such a messy and audacious fairytale; a Love so unbelievable, it’s unbelievable. I’ve let go of being able to wrap my head just so I could circle my soul, time and time and time again. Because closeted closest to my chest is where all the things that don’t make sense go and “the government of the world shall be upon the shoulder of a Bethlehem Baby” is one of my favorite “foolishnesses”.
Right next to:
The weary world waits and anticipates, but mostly it just simply suffocates, drowning from life lived in bloodshot centuries of drunken contortion, demonized distortion, debauchery of global proportion. When . . . FINALLY. From the darkness of a virgin’s vagina, there came a big and bursting Light. A Baby is born in stable-shadows with floating dust-dots and the large, moist eyes of cattle looking on with a confession of beastly affection. There is the odor alongside . . . Can you. smell it? Blood-metallic meets body sweat to mingle down next to the dung heaps. And the star-struck shepherds and strange sorcerers cresting the easterly-hill and nothing is ever the same again. And I must go there, too, on this yearly pilgrimage of the soul; this yearly pilgrimage across the desert of my Gentile-heart to meet with my diaper-wearing King.
Because it only took Infinity, poured into Infancy to take away my iniquity. And while You’re away in a manger….can I lie down next to You? Flesh-to-flesh in a peasant’s feed-trough, with Your heaven-sent, celestial-scented, baby-breath bathing my earthen pores. I would curl myself next to Your lowly born-story and hold You against my cheek-grazing lips; hold the Baby that bound me together in my own mother’s womb. I would hold You in the skin-itchin’ straw under the lookin’-stars in the night-sky and I would smell You, just there, in the crease of your cosmic-neck. So tight together, tears aren’t temptation, they’re a torrent.
Am I near enough here to know You better?
And do you know what I would wish? I would wish upon a glittery Nazareth star that each and every of y’all could steal into our living room and snuggle next to our hearth-fire and we could share of all the Light things we see and for the love of baby Jesus tell me all the good things you know. Side-by-side we can rock and croon over the Baby with the decking of our hearts; hanging ornaments gilded with Love from the tissue of our aortas.