misha and i recently discovered each other, and in each other, kindred spirit, and so i welcome this sister today to my place to share with you on advent: more than expectancy.
I am of the persuasion that all who seek to worship are artists. The image stamped in our souls becomes the image we live to reflect. Regardless of proof, income or gender, in spite of all evidence we muster to the contrary, we are alive to make and co-create with our minds, bodies, spirits and emotions. We are alive to give birth.
There is no time this is more apparent, more beautifully poignant to me, than at Advent. Four weeks of intentional preparation. Four weeks of longing.
Very few people we meet or talk to are ever willing to name themselves creators. And some who do, defame it. All manner of reasons are given: it's unfair to those who do it well, to those who make their wage by it, to those 'called' to it, educated for it, who are welcomed around it ...
And whatever we still wrestle with in our own identity, we resist in others. Confidence, joy, creativity, making time to be and do and prioritize these aspects of our identity - all of this stirs at the deepest aches in us. In who we are.
It's meant to. It's a hunger on purpose, so that we feast on him and don't die starving ourselves of who we were meant to be. But a famished person is easily offended by someone feasting on what they most won't let themselves enjoy.
We must let ourselves enjoy. We are born from beauty. We are created to worship the source of it.
Some have owned, claimed, fought for and are carving out a lifestyle of carrying this passion. They are creating place. They pick up their pens, their needles, their anvils, their blow-torches, their imaginations, their voice. They offer a womb.
We are the magi. We carry our best. We are the shepherds. We listen for words. We are the angels. We sing our joy. Let us just never be the one threatened and seeking to destroy. Even within ourselves. Let us not withhold the gifts he is worthy to receive. Even our own.
Yes. We are the expectant ones. We bear, we raise and we give up our acts of worship in bodily form. Our children. In words on a page. In a conversation we didn't withhold. In the turn, the nuance, of a decision.
Every year at the end of a calendar we are offered a choice again to live this, to be this, to become. We are given a chance to swell with life. To waddle with it uncomfortably. Misunderstood, sometimes alone, sometimes without a cousin to say 'yes! I feel it, too!' And sometimes to be the one saying, come, stay with me, I will be your safe place to prepare. To worship.
We know we are heavy, gestating - all of us - in this season of listening. We prepare with some worry, we are burdened, we are blissful, we seek hope. And from that burgeoning incubation of fertility, that carrying deep within us, comes great beauty.
This is a season to yearn. To ache. To feel deep expectation with a promised fulfilment. We know we fear the agony of birthing and yet we crave, we envelope - we will hold - the joy of new life. The question becomes: what is our Magnificat? What is our worship? How will we beautify the life we are pregnant with? How will we prepare for him room?
In this season of waiting let us offer him the gift of choice. The gift of yes. The gift of accepting the fullness of him. In the place we welcome him, he offers jewels back in return. Inspiration, time, listening, whispers - all of the most beautiful things we are and can be.
As we gather towards the bounty of him we, in turn, can offer our beauty back. We can be and welcome and create, yes, as artists, the gifts we will bring in these four weeks.
The gifts we are made to create.
(painting by emily wierenga; photos taken from misha's blog)
