I've been waiting all year for Advent. Arrival. The time of the year when we remember in earnest that He Came. The season in the church year where we wait, and remember, held gently in that space between memory and hope. The memory of his coming. The hope of his coming again.
And I've been thinking of Mary. And how it must have felt when she learned just how personal 'God with us' was going to get. Her waist was going to thicken with it. The skin of her belly stretch beneath her fingers, the days marching on to the one when He Came.