whispers. the first night of advent

“I know, I know. I am coming…I’m coming”

Again today I was confronted with the brokenness of the world.

I came home from holidays where brokenness filled the empty spaces where hope and joy and laughter should have been. I am no stranger to disappointment and fear. Worry runs most of my days and the bills keep piling up. Tangible things remind me often that this world is busted up and not at all the way things were intended to be.

But also, the depression that lingers, the unexplained sadness, the anger and the fear – these too are companions that whisper in the night, reminders of the broken and missing things. Oh…the missing. Missing a thing you never had is a different sort of missing. The missing screams that once we had and now we don’t. The echo of something not right.

I long for someone to show up; to make sense of all this madness. I long for someone to step in and set all the broken things right. I long for someone to step in and make the worry stop and the depression flee. I long for someone who can and will wipe every tear from my face. I long for someone to show up and shine light in the dark places. I long for someone to spit in the dry earth and rub mud in my eyes so that I can see. I long for someone to bandage wounds and raise the dead. I long for someone to take me home.

So, tonight, this first day of advent, instead of listening to the whispers that remind me of the missing and broken things, I will choose to listen for another whisper. I will press my ear against the darkness of night and the silence of these four walls, and I will listen. I will not move until I am sure that I have heard correctly…

“I know, I know. I am coming…I’m coming”

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10 thoughts on “whispers. the first night of advent

  1. I love you. This is beautiful. The kind of beautiful that gets more beautiful with time because it is filled with your wisdom and the truth that shows us the very thing we hope for… Christ in you, in us.

  2. I’ve read this over five or six times and I can’t get over it. It’s haunting and poetic and beautiful and just…so much of what I know but in different ways. I love you, Alison, and I’m taking residence next you by that window.

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