I bristle at inconvenience. Respond hastily, not with patience.
There's so much that needs doing, so many that need pleasing. And Christmas shopping doesn't do itself.
Why can't you just calm yourself down and go to sleep? I don't say it aloud, but I think it loud enough for all of us to know.
Endless reappearing after tucking-in, reassuring after another drink or trip to the toilet. And its just more inconvenience. I'm double minded in my comfort - wishing peace for him, ... and for me.
Advent is about waiting, quietness, contemplation of the Christ-child. I read it many places. Just in passing.
I wonder about Mary. Travelling on a donkey. Waiting for a baby near birth. Laden, swollen, tired. Perhaps she had this impatience, too. Not just serenity and thought. There is a messiness to Christmas, an inconvenience.
Maybe I need to feel stretched this way, so that I'm not caught in my own holy purifiance. I'm caught between. Desiring God with me, in my senses, and cloistering me. Knowing life and its messy, busy, selfish neediness. In peaceful advent, the cure for impatient lostness. In broken humanity, the antidote for holy pride.
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