...with my eyes closed

…still with Thee in closer, dearer company,

in work that keeps faith sweet and strong ,in trust that triumphs over wrong;

in hope that sends a shining ray far down the future’s broadening way,

in peace that only Thou canst give, with Thee, O Master, let me live.

---Washington Gladden, 1879

Meat, browned. Tomato paste and water. Beef bouillon paste, spices. Red beans. Cook in crockpot, add salt and tomatoes in juice.

In my sleep I made this recipe, stumbling through blurs of soccer seasons, choir seasons, season seasons. With my eyes closed, with one hand tied behind my back, while pretending I understood the math homework. So when middle child texted for the recipe, I sent it off from pure muscle memory. …”Mom? Is there any kind of tomato stuff in there before the ones at the end?” …”Yes. The tomato paste and water at the beginning…” “Ummm, not there. Did you leave it out?”

Well. A little lesson for me on the power of habit, and falling out of it. When I had stopped making chili by the bucketful, the habits that guided my cooking (and the mental index card that held the much-loved recipe) had fallen away too. Walking in the company of Jesus, our teacher and friend, incorporates habits—habits of work, trust, hope, peace. In the daily practice, the repeating rhythm of these habits we exercise walking in the presence of Christ, we find our way to life.

In Christ’s closer company, we become what we practice.

...wondering and weary

In Lenten practice we, with Jesus, 'turn our faces toward Jerusalem', facing along with him the steps that led to betrayal, accusation, abandonment, and death. We spend ourselves in meditative practices that guide us deeper into Jesus' experience--so that, having suffered with him, the Easter of rising might be infused with a celebration infused with depth of meaning and debt of love.

In Advent practice the breathless steps we take toward the oddly-filled manger imbue our days with a sense of wonder. The gentle, expectant searching for hope, peace, joy, love in unexpected places--in a stable? among the ragged people? sought by faraway star-scientists?--can create the feeling that things, things, are possible.

Wonder is in this world at Advent.

But so is weariness.

Even in candleglow, we see the dust in the corners of our lives, and the ugly cobwebs high in the eaves of others. We notice the good intentions and horrid execution of strangers, and of friends. We have big plans, and we blow them. The very people, and institutions, that we count on to make the world kinder, and lovelier, let us down. We mean to be better, and we aren't.

And we are so weary.

I have to think that, somehow, all of the wonder, and all of the weariness, is gathered into this Advent journey. I will keep walking. I will find out.