Lo, he comes

A canceled end-of-the-day lesson leaves me with several hours in a row to do with as I please.

There are a host of things on my to-do list. The least of which is the hours of practice I still have yet to do in preparation for what may prove to be the most difficult final of my academic career.

Every part of me knows that I should practice. I have successfully avoided it all day, and tomorrow's Mary, as well as next Thursday's Mary will be annoyed with present Mary for not using the time she has.

But my soul is restless, in a way I can't help but attend to.

And as I allow myself a moment to sit, they come. 

The tears. 

The ones that have been brimming all day, all week.

From where, I don't exactly know.

Maybe they spring from anxiety, from exhaustion, from overwhelmedness. 

Will I make it?

Will I be enough?

Will I find any more reserves of strength within me?

Will I get it done?

Will this, too, pass?

Maybe they spring from soul-weariness, from grief, from disillusionment with the fight.

Will the wrong ever be made right?

Will the evil ever be broken?

Will the light ever overcome the darkness?

Will the truth win out?

Will this, too, pass?

Maybe they spring from joy, from wonder, from surprising, unspeakable beauty.

Will I give in to the joy?

Will I dare to hope?

Will I choose to feed my faith?

Will I continue to keep my eyes peeled for the glimpses of light?

Will I refuse to let the moments pass me by without choosing to be present to them?

As I write, I find myself mesmerized by the brilliant hues of the setting sun peering through the shadows of a tangled web of bare branches.
The contrast is stark.
The branches are cold and lifeless - the sun, warm and inviting. 

And isn't this the perfect picture of Advent?

The dark and the light. The cold and the warm. The now and the not yet. 

The hope and belief that the baby will come, and the honest acknowledgement of the reality that he is not here yet.

But it is more than that. It is the belief that his coming does not happen all at once. That his coming is gradual. That he is still in the process of coming. That his arrival wasn't only in the past, and that it isn't only in the future.
It is ongoing. It is today. It is now.

The last glimmer of daylight fades, and we settle in for a long, cold night.

But there is life in the darkness.

Though all seems still, cold, lifeless, tired, dead....yet there is movement, imperceptible to our near-sighted eyes. While we sleep, the dancing globe will continue its slow and steady twirl. And tomorrow, when we wake again, we will once more greet the light of the sun. The light that has been there all along. The light that even as it leaves us, has already begun its return.

And so we give thanks.

For the light that has been.
For the light that is now.
For the light that is, even now, coming.

Lo, he comes, the long-expected one.

Lo, he is here, Emmanuel.

The one who has been with us.

The one who will be with us.

The one who is being with us.