There are seasons that smack of God's faithfulness … when with weary hearts we ride south, again, with eyes full of tired tears. And then He arrives, in the midst of this Advent - both perpetual and seasonal - and says, whispers in the stream of my morning shower, in the moon frocked in frothy clouds, in the silence of the early morning in a familiar home and the steam rises out of sweet-bitter coffee and smells and spells a simple truth - "you are mine. I have great plans for you."
This has been a season of deep restoration, of feeling tangible love and support that I've needed more than I know, and one that has allowed me to sink into disappointment, sort through it, and rest in the faithfulness of a Father who promises great plans, and of friends who won't let me forget it.
I stood in the Target clearance section yesterday, with 50% off signs staring me down and visions of perfect mantles and parties dancing in my weepy eyes. I love Christmas, and I was so sad that it is over. I'm also tired - worn out in the best way from a firehose of friends and family and unbelievably late nights. I am drenched in stories and sips of wine and beer and sad smiles and silly jokes and and the perfect cocktail of crazy and wonderful that I've been drunk on for weeks. These are sacred days, life-filling and heart-warming, the best reminders of a hundred small promises and one great big one.
This Advent has been a wreck, and I feel like again I've crammed my days to the brim and never really got the chance to rest, to celebrate, to savor this particular season. But my life is transient at best right now, and home is a relative notion based on where I'm resting my head each night. And maybe in this season of suspended grace that stretches from St Louis to Nashville to Florence and back, it is simply enough to hold on tight, pour another glass and say thanks.