IOh, come, oh, come, Emmanuel, And ransom captive Israel, That mourns in lonely exile here Until the Son of God appear. Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel Shall come to you, O Israel!
Tonight begins the second week of Advent. We will light another candle in our dim kitchen, read the evening's passage, and lift our forks and glasses to another week of darkness.
We're all waiting for something. My husband is waiting for a job. Some friends are waiting for a uninterrupted day. A friend is waiting for a healthy prognosis for her baby. Another friend weeps on my bed a few weeks ago for the husband she thought she'd have by now. Another just waits to want another day. None of us seem to understand what it means to live behind a glass dimly, to be in the already/not yet, to have and yet not have.
Today, all day, I've been thinking of the blind man at Bethsaida. The one who saw men as trees walking. We are people for whom half a miracle is never enough.
Half the Advent candles are lit tonight, and the room still feels all dark.
. . .
What are you waiting for tonight? Where do you feel exiled? What has you captive? What miracles has Christ already done?