December 17, 2015
Snow. It will elude us this Christmastime. The unpredictable weather will, once again, be unpredictable, and exclude us from partaking in wonderlands of winter delights until after the merriment has faded into photographs and fondness.
It's twilight as I look through the glass and observe the bare trees arching their branches into the pale grey color palette. Snow or no snow, I'm reminded of it's imminent arrival. Not if, but when. Today, we despair over it's delay, dreaming of days merry and bright. In little time, we'll grieve over it's January greeting, cursing the icy cold with the bitterness of Ebenezer before the three ghosts. We will not be given what we want, and when we do, we will want for something we haven't been given.
The dreaded discontent. The longing for treasures of silver and gold. The wonder replaced by the wanting. The giving overwhelmed by the getting. Like the hollow sound of church bells clanging in the ears of the deaf, joy has been abandoned for jolly. The stories are read, the carols are sung, while idle thoughts of resolutions fill the expanses of your heart. An unending choir of voices climbing the great walls of your mind, the maddening clamor reaching a pinnacle of discordant wailing.
Then, quietness. And revelation. They shall call His name Immanuel, which means God with us. He will save His people from their sins. The unbearable longing. A song of divine cheer. A thrill of hope. The weary world rejoices.