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“How many more days?”
You ask again over breakfast.
Five-year-old feet swing bare, pink, in morning sun beneath the planked table.
I crane to see the patchwork of days, etched black and white on the kitchen wall.
We count again.

At the finishing, you scowl.
Swipe your pink sleeve, cuff to elbow with milk from a perfect pout.
It will never come.

But here we are.
The counting begins.

Mary, swollen tight with Hope, leans heavy into the long-awaited spiral of darkness.
Her path lit one step at a time.
And we walk beside her.
From faith to sight.
Darkness to light.

The authentically hopeful Christmas spirit, has not looked away from the darkness, but straight into it. The true and victorious Christmas spirit does not look away from death, but directly at it.
Advent begins in the dark

– Fleming Rutledge –

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