It feels like I’m in Advent, waiting. (I never seem to be in sync with the current liturgical season.) I feel like an old dog trying to find a comfortable spot to lay down—he circles and circles around the same spot, but no angle quite looks comfortable enough to settle on.
I am uncomfortable in my own skin. And there is no where to go or run or do anything. Just wait.
I am not comfortable waiting. But there is no other choice. Only God can fill this God-shaped hole in me. It felt like I was standing on His shoulders back in the summer, now it feels like I’m standing on the edge.
In the darkness of the season,
in the silence of Mary’s womb,
new life waits and grows.
Hope is shaped in hidden places,
on the edges, in the depths
far from the blinding lights
and deafening sounds of consumer frenzy.
In the darkness and silence of my own life,
Iistening for the whisper of angel wings,
longing for a genuine experience of mystery,
hoping for a rekindling of joy
and the establishment of peace.
I lean into the darkness
— poem by Larry J. Peacock