The tree is ready to be trimmed. (The cats have been skulking around it all morning.) The gingerbread house is constructed on the table. It is good to begin marking the time by marking our space. Time again moves towards that birth: at times trudging like kids in "too big" boots, at times carefully and slowly (like Simeon and Anna must have walked,) at times in the too-busied steps of harried adults (impatient with the meanderings of kids and old folks,) at times marching, on order, unclear if the orders are from Herod or not. We move in all of these disjointed ways, and yet we hold out faith that as we dither and circle, and walk and drum that time actually moves on as steadily and unfailingly and as ploddingly faithful as those donkey's steps. Moving us again towards incarnation and deliverances and the renewal of hopes too easily dashed.
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