A sacred space of Holiness dwells in these few days before Christmas. I feel like I am walking on holy ground, like I should never wear shoes the week before Christmas.
I am so cautious about the space in my life in these days of acute longing and hope. I want to inhale more deeply, lingering in the hold for a few seconds longer before I exhale.
We read a lot about making space for Christ in Christmas. But I see Him everywhere. He’s here. Absolutely, undeniably here. I just don’t want to miss Him. And if I don’t take time, I might miss a glimpse of the beauty of the One, the One who wore flesh so that we could be with Him.
Oh, He’s with us. He is Emmanuel. Here. Now. In one sense, I don’t want to blink in case I miss a glimpse, and in another sense, I know that he will meet me with my eyes closed.
The longing is profound this year. It grows more agonizing every Advent. Strangely enough, the joy also runs deeper, closer to my core. The streams of longing and joy seem to run together, digging, wearing down a path of Advent in my soul. My soul is weary, aching, and broken. And it rejoices with the thrill of hope. I am now capable of weeping in simultaneous agony and joyous rapture without splitting in half. I had no inkling that a soul could bear the dichotomy of joy and grief in the same instant.
This is holy ground that we are walking. It is no-shoes territory. And I am becoming more fully alive with each day that I make a little bit more room in my heart for this enigmatic Christ-child.