Just you wait...

 

We are in Advent again, the waiting season, here to remind us yet one more time that waiting is an active verb, not just a label for passive idleness and blind hope. This in-between moment has been given us to engage possibilities, live the questions, dare our dreams.

A writer learns early on, if remaining a writer, that waiting to meet a new story is a hunt, a following of tracks, discovering bits of hair in the bark of trailside trees, catching glimpses of furry form rounding a bend somewhere in the dim up ahead, waiting for a fuller glance while working the way word by word and day by day toward that revelation when the wolf turns to show the glint in her eye and the flash of his teeth.

When at last, we catch up with the shepherds who saw the light before us, and we come face to face with the Babe in the manger, he doesn’t tell us anything our road hasn’t taught us already, just points us toward the fabulous and fearsome Becoming where all of us must die again before we are born.

 

Henry's books.

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