‘What comes into our minds when we think about God
is the most important thing about us.’
A.W. Tozer
I reach for the empty suitcase, and wonder if today is the day when I will have enough energy to discern what needs to be put in it.
And then I run out of days.
Whenever I have left my home in the last five years, to go on holiday, or just to stay with my parents for a few days, I went surrounded by bags and baggages. This is because all I can do is try to grab a bit of everything, in the hope that somehow it will all add up to that art which is called ‘packing’, and will be sufficient to see me through whatever situation I may find myself in whilst I’m away.
However I try, my preparations always seems to end up as an exhausting pantomime.
So Advent is the one time in the year when I make a concerted effort, if I am well enough, to clear the inner cobwebs slowly and carefully and try not make it a pantomime, or a crisis. I want to look at my metaphorical suitcase, my soul; to sit with it – empty; and to imagine what it might look like full.
What do I need in this season of my life, so I might become more mindful of the God who beckons me forward on this journey?
What perfectionist preoccupations, plans and dreams can I put down, so that there is head- and heart- as well as soul-space, to journey into the Divine embrace anew?
What don’t I need, what support struts can be jettisoned as being out of date, are there old coping strategies which are no longer useful?
What default comforts need to be reassessed?
And yet amidst these valid questions, I find myself wondering if, this year, I can take a risk: can I turn up to this pilgrimage into the heart of God unpacked, unprepared, weary and dirty – but willing to be my unadorned, beloved, self, and just see what happens?
Dear Lord, I have swept and I have washed but
still nothing is as shining as it should be
for you. Under the sink, for example, is an
uproar of mice – it is the season of their
many children. What shall I do? And under the eaves
and through the walls the squirrels
have gnawed their ragged entrances – but it the season
when they need shelter, so what shall I do? And
the raccoon limps into the kitchen and opens the cupboard
while the dog snores, the cat holds the pillow;
what shall I do? Beautiful is the new snow falling
in the yard and the fox who is staring boldly
up the path, to the door. And I still believe you will
come, Lord; you will, when I speak to the fox,
the sparrow, the lost dog, the shivering sea-goose, know
that I am really speaking to you whenever I say,
as I do all morning and afternoon: Come in, Come in.
‘Advent Poem’
Mary Oliver
vital supplies. (iPhone image)
image into ikon 
Dear Kate,
I am enjoying these reflections so very much, thank you. I just realized I can hit “reply” so am taking advantage of it!
Praying, too, that you are resting well and that daylight brings with it renewed health and well-being and joy in, and through, you.
In Christ,
Laurie
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Bless you beloved Laurie for your steadfast encouragement and your prayers for me. I find myself very much in need of rest! But I’m beginning to slow down into the wealth this season has to offer, one I love, even though its the also season of the year where my body and brain seem to buckle. (But then, that there is the Mystery of the sacred in the ordinary and the literal magic of the incarnation – because perhaps because of the need to treat myself more kindly, paradoxically I am more able to receive what I need through the pain? You too, understand these times, I know.). You are frequently in my thoughts and prayers, and I give thanks for your company on the journey. May the riches of this season reach you in the heart of where you need them. Hoping you are as well as you can be, all blessings dear sister.
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