A
ll day I pray to be a womb for God.
On the way through the early blue light to the dentist, I whisper it to Father, “A womb, Lord. Make me a womb for you. Come dwell in me.”
When we come home from the appointment to crusty bowls still on the table and the entrails of scarves and mittens and boots flung everywhere, I remember and pray it in earnest, the arms filling with the strewn innards, the words coming breathless like a woman made heavy, “A womb, Lord, a womb, a dwelling place for You.”
It’s when the phone rings, supper hour and I’m caught off guard, that I forget.
I don’t even remember that I have forgotten until afterward, after dinner and after our nightly advent readings, when we light the candles on our wreath and the figurine of Mary who is swollen with the Child lumbers ever closer to her deliverance.
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To read how I am really struggling through this Christmas season – & why it may be exactly right - read the rest of the post here …
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Tomorrow’s Post: What Makes a Painful Christmas Easier
Saturday’s Post: Weekends are for talking books
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