Advent

December comes.  It creeps in with the slate-grey dawn past the dark branches to settle with a chill.  It is the month of zenith, a cauldron for the dark, backdrop for Christmas lights and fancies.  It shuffles hungry feet inside and holds sway round the hearth.  It is the month of endings and beginnings, of waiting for the rebirth of sun that now holds our remembrance of the birth of the Son.  It is held by the universe of fir trees at our border, framed by laurel and holly and ivy.  The sunshine-leaves of brown still floor the fields with the treasures of summer, and the trees prepare to welcome winter. 

In the dark we can praise God for lights, in the cold for heaters.  Being without can mark our appreciation.  And being never without the fine-tuning of spirit since God soft-footed an entry into the whirling world we can lose that edge of need, of promise.  So this is a perfect season to tend an empty crib in our heart and prepare it for God.  He is coming.  It is a silent world outside, gently dripping in quiet concentration.  But it holds the seed for tomorrow’s turning, for next year’s burning, for summer’s yearning.  December has come and we are called to listen and to wait.