Shine

 

Up earlier this morning, we noticed the powerful lights of an approaching tractor, its headlights cutting a path through the deep darkness pre-dawn. (That sounds more impressive than it is: dawn comes late in Scotland at this time of year!)

The tractor pulled a trailer of cow dung, intended for fertilising, feeding one of his fields.

The farmer didn’t let the deep darkness deter him from his work.

O come, o come Emmanuel. Don’t let the deep darkness of this world deter any of us from venturing forth to spread the good news, to prepare the way for others to come to Jesus, to enrich the lives of those we meet today.

The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not and can never overcome it. Hallelujah.

Advent Longing

 

I watch the old man next door head off down the road with his German Shepherd. He’s looking thin. He’s walking slower. Fiercely independent, he resists all offers of help, bristles at any suggestions that they should perhaps consider moving somewhere smaller, on a bus route, and seems to have convinced himself that life in this world as it is will go on forever.

Classic ostrich syndrome, (although I’ve just discovered, courtesy of Google, that ostriches don’t actually bury their heads in the sand.)

The passage of time. Sometimes it speeds by, other times it crawls along, but of course neither of those statements is true: it remains steadier than the grandfather clock ticking away in the hall. Night follows day; season follows season; year follows year.

Never have I felt the power of the advent longing as keenly as I have this year. Humanity has made a complete botch of things. Global tensions, dreadful brutality, heartless violence. On a personal level, we have more friends struggling with illness, marriage breakdowns, children rebelling, mental and emotional exhaustion than ever. The darkness is deep and it is everywhere.

I hold fast to the promise in John’s beautiful gospel: the light came into the world, and the darkness as not overcome it. Neither the outer nor the inner darkness can extinguish the light of love. I am so grateful.

Come, Lord Jesus. Maranatha. Come, Prince of Peace.

 

Feed the Birds

 

How often I hear God through the activity of the birds!

This morning, sitting in the prayer window and waiting on God, I watched in an abstract sort of way as the smaller song birds fluttered and bounced round the newly-filled feeders. Suddenly, I much larger blackbird swooped in, followed by a whole cohort of blackbirds, scattering the diminutive blue tits and chaffinches. The blackbirds fed fast and furiously and then left in a flurry, and I watched as the small flock of tiny birds returned to the feeders in peace.

I do love the song of the blackbirds, so am in no way wanting them to leave our garden. But I’m thinking of the way bigger creatures can bully their way into the places of abundant resources, scattering the smaller and less powerful. But their time is limited. The meek will inherit the earth.

There is hope. The light shines in the darkness, even the darkness within me, and the darkness has not overcome it. As the celebrations for Immanuel’s birth approach, I celebrate that he came to and for the poor and lowly and he has not forgotten them.

Maranatha. Come, Lord Jesus.

That life is the light

 

The bush outside of the prayer window is denuded now, standing prepped for winter’s worst. I watch, mesmerised, as I notice that deep inside the tangled twigs and branches, life is bubbling through the many birds hopping and popping in apparently perpetual motion. I can see the life because the bush is stripped and bare.

In these days of global darkness, when all is stripped away and it can seem that brutality and greed and terror reign victorious, open my eyes, Lord, to see the way your Holy Spirit, working in your children, is active and alive. Day by day, may we all live a life of light and love, bringing hope to a despairing world.

The true light that gives light to all is in the world. We celebrate again His coming, the not-yet and the already. O come, o come, Emanuel!

The Next Chapter

 

Several years ago, we were enjoying a glorious autumn of golds and russets. The leaves clung to the trees longer than normal and then, literally overnight, temperatures plummeted, causing all the leaves to drop at once. The three intertwined trunks of one of our Norwegian maples were suddenly exposed, while beneath its bare branches was heaped an undulating pile of colour. It looked to me like a human form just emerged from a shower, perhaps, having dropped its bathrobe to the ground. Beautiful, striking and memorable. Naked and vulnerable.

Circumstances and routines can define us, becoming familiar and cosy, clothing us, like a protective bathrobe, from the world. When the seasons of life change, shrugging off the old, familiar and even somehow comforting cover requires courage.

I remember the fictional converstion imagined by Dostoevsky in his great novel, The Brothers Karamazov, where he creates an interchange between The Grand Inquisitor (the devil) and Jesus (imprisoned under the Spanish Inquisition). The devil posits to Jesus that human beings are happier living under the security of a dictatorial structure than they are having free will and being able to choose their own way. Jesus remains silent throughout the dialogue, his silence more eloquent than words, his love for humanity deep and strong.

May I, with my eyes fixed on Jesus and the courage he demonstrated in his life and death, step out into my day, ready to drop any covers which have become a shield, willing to live life to the full as Jesus enables me. May I step fully into my next chapter, whatever that may be.

 

The Waiting Game

 

One of our family’s catchphrases is, ‘You’re either a Steenbock or a Morrison.’ Steenbock is my maiden name, and if you are a Steenbock, you will always choose to be early, wherever you are going. If you are a Morrison, you will try to squeeze in one more thing before leaving for the appointment, airport, train station, whatever.

It has led to disagreements in the past. Now Don knows, it’s easier to just go along with the Steenbock. So he took Mhairi to the train station this morning, at least a good twenty minutes earlier than he would have chosen to leave for it himself…

Advent. Season of waiting. Generally, nobody likes to wait; to be ‘kept waiting’ is impolite, rude. But in Advent, God himself keeps us waiting, a deliberate period of waiting to allow time for reflection, for drawing near, for being still.  Advent is a time of settling in to the wait to commemorate Jesus’ entrance into the world as one of us.

As a mother of four, I have spent a good amount of time waiting. Routine medical appointments, sports, clubs, social visits, whatever. As the daughter of a centenarian, I spend a few hours every year in airports, waiting. I have a lot of experience waiting, but it can still be a challenge, especially when awaiting a hoped-for outcome.

We are all in heaven’s waiting room, but some of us are closer to the door than others. I think of my dear Mom, having lost so much independence, spending most of her days dozing, awaiting her Saviour’s voice calling her on. She waits in hope, in love, and, I pray, in peace.

Be still and know that I am God. May we all learn the art of waiting. May our Advent season be sanctified by the promise and hope of Immanuel, God with us.