I've been feeling cranky and harried lately, rushed and scowly and looking at the sour side of things. I mentioned it to a friend and she sympathized. "I know that feeling," she said, "when you just need more Jesus."
And if I'm smart, I don't say anything else at all.
I don't tell him that Jesus called us blessed (those of us who believe without seeing him).
I don't tell him that having the Comforter - unbound by flesh and blood and omnipresent, always - is better.
When I'm paying attention, I don't say anything at all.
That longing, this longing, this feeling of needing and wanting more, is universal. It's not satisfied by platitudes or metaphors or substitutions -
We live in a world that teems with life and glory. Just think of the softness of a newborn puppy. The wonder of northern lights. The crash of an angry sea against sharp rocks, the purr of a rushing tide. The scent of wild violets, the smooth tumble of lupins against your palm. The slap of a beaver tail in the water, the papery rustle of old cattails in the breeze. The joy of loving and being loved, the fireworks in your heart after shared laughter, the sheer relief of fresh air when you step out of a stuffy room ...
The world is full of wonder and delight and awe, and yet -
We long, we ache, we pine.
When I am at my best, I let him sit with that longing, because it's beautiful. It's the longing of generations.
It's the longing that we remember every time we mark advent: the longing of a world waiting for Jesus.
From the first sigh that spilled out in sorrow, to Zechariah's song of hope*, we have longed for our Redeemer, our rescuer.
We long for him still. We long to see him with our real eyes.
Merry Christmas, friends.
Xo.
* the morning light from heaven is about to break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, and to guide us to the path of peace. (from the book of Luke, chapter 1, verses 78&79)
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