• I could get used to the kinds of mornings when the world wakes up more slowly. Where the space between breathing and doing is a mighty chasm. Where I can sit in the dark, before the fog lifts, and witness my own rebirth.
• The warm mug against my palm always makes me feel like I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.
• The upside down letters written with a finger on the foggy window remind me that children aren’t worried about perfection as much as making their mark on the world.
• I’m learning that peace isn’t something you do, but a presence to know.
There’s something about this time of year - when Advent is upon us - and the silence the snow evokes can be felt deep in the bones. It’s the kind of silence that invites a richer life, a good look at the heart, the hope of what can be. It’s one of the few times of year that God-as-gift feels tangible, feels close. Like an expectant mother holding her rounding belly, I hold a heart that is swelling. My heart as the inn, emptying itself to make room for the coming king.