Whatever your opinion on Christmas, I find it helpful to choose certain things to really meditate on from time to time. This year, as Advent approached, I was struck with thoughts of the incarnation and the whole concept of God with us – and the weight each of those words hold.
So, for this Advent season, I am sharing some meditations on Immanuel. Most of this is not my own writing, but hymns/carols and scripture passages, but I have put a few thoughts before them. I hope it is meaningful to you as it has been for me.

I pulled into the drive and found a spot to park my car. I took the key out of the ignition and put it in my purse. I looked at my hands, palms up. They were shaking and sweating like crazy. I clenched them into fists to steady them and gritted my teeth.
"You can do this," I whispered to myself. "It'll be better this way."

So with the lamps
all put out
the moon sinking
over a dark horizon,
and a thin, cold rain
drumming on the
roof
beginning
a downpour of immense
darkness.

it seemed
nothing
could survive this flood
this profusion of blackness
creeping through keyholes
and cracks at the windows
stealing under doors and
into bedrooms,

swallowing up every shadow,
every sharp edge

I stand on the plateau and look down. On the left hand I see the twisted and mangled bodies of those who fell. Poor souls. They trusted in their own strength. On the right hand I see those who continue to climb. Some occasionally slip back and some fall even as far as the deepest part of the valley, but all lift holy hands to the heavens in a petition for grace before pressing forward. I have made it across the Jordan River and now I am at the home gates. God is good. God is faithful. I do not deserve to be in this place. I can reach out and touch the Light of heaven from where I stand.

LONG AGO, IN A LAND CALLED Sylvana, there was born to the royal family a son. The heir to the throne, a soul to continue the divine blood of his predecessors. The King and Queen named their son Prince Faolan, in which the hired staff quickly dubbed him the nick name "Lan". As a child, Lan grew to respect his tutors and work his hardest, practicing day after day on the dance lessons his parents would arrange for him. Everyday, he would dance for his parent's approval, letting his feet slide and leap, his arms swing and lunge, letting all his emotions tie together for a smashing climax.

he tries to touch me
but I shrink away
his eyes are watching
accosting me

my skin shudders
as he spits rhymes
and sweet words to the girl
on my left

she’s laughing
but she doesn’t know
what he did
last night

he does not have
good intentions

I don’t know
how to tell him
to back off

When Clara was helping Ema pull the last batch of cookies out of the oven, the bell above the door jingled and Kate struggled in, lugging a giant shopping bag filled with canvases. Emily ran to help her in, and then they unloaded the paintings onto the back counters.
“Oh!” Ema cried when she saw them. “They’re so beautiful.”
Kate blushed.
“They’re just what we need,” Emily said. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to let them go! But that is why we’re putting them up here.”

Our feet slide against
Faux-wood floors
And I know
That they did not
Used to be there
But nobody else does
Or probably remembers

But I know I
woke in this here room
The sun spilling across a blanket
Sharing a bed with a person who
Is no longer at my level and whom
I duck away from if I catch sight
Of any familiar shape in a
Public setting

Bog path. The thud is plaited
with twits of
twigs and
broken baskets,
reeds.
"I need tea,"
he says.
"I need cognitive dissonance,"
I say.
"For what?"
"For everything."
I don't want to tell him --
for missing him. "But
I think everything is going to feel normal."
"Of course it will."
"Yet if everything feels normal, maybe that will disturb me, too."
A popping scoff.
"Shut up?"
"Yes. Just get over it. You are going to be totally fine."
I try to laugh.