Hibernal dreams, like children, nudge me out from beneath warm covers–poking at what little promise of fruit ripening. Maybe next year. Early morning twilight, and I fry my husband's eggs, sunny-side up. I gaze east, while banking on yolks to set and my heart to feel reassured with a future full of questions. Donned in domesticated joy, I am keeper of schedules and balance–a middle-aged perfectionist pouring out love, mistakes, and familiar tears of resignation. Whatever certitude the Magi felt, I sorely lack. Joy is the promise I want fulfilled in the glorious mundane.
Bone-tired, I wonder how easy God’s yoke truly is, and if I’ve somehow gotten it wrong–this resting in him while working through suffering. I want to know that my soul brings worth to the wait, that this keening to be more Christlike holds value.
A faint light spills out over frost kissed horizon. Alas, my heart’s not ready for this day. Who could ease this malaise? Only the one who works all things together for good–Christ born to me, and the knowledge that I am his outweighs all weariness from striving.
Hold this glowing ember of expectancy in your open hand. For we are all like Magi in pursuit of a prophecy fulfilled–satiated in ordinary days, crowned in common time.