With New Year’s past and the promise of lengthening days, I grow anxious for warm sunshine on my shoulders. The street-lamps cast a dour glow on my mornings where once I greeted the dawn. The cold rips through me when I go outside. Some days, no matter how thick my layers, I feel a slow freeze begin in my heart, grasping with cold fingers at my hands, my toes, my nose.
Desiring summer does not make the days run faster. Wishing for snow does not convince the cold and the clouds to tango. Missing Christmas…that is to rob it of its strength, for Christmas lives in each of us.
It is the present, and here is where we worldly creatures act. In it we may influence the future, in it we may draw on the past, but in it we remain. My need to leap seasons and places and experiences has driven me to illness: of the body, of the mind, of the spirit. But this need simply indicates another world. As C.S. Lewis suggests in his chapter “Hope,” desire’s existence necessitates desire’s satisfaction; if the satisfaction eludes this world, it is found in the next. So, I give my wishes to God along with my worries and my ruminations. He is the only one who could grant them anyway.
So there. I give Him my fears for the past and the future, and my desires for these as well. All that is left is to give is my present. This is the most difficult, for I am most definitely me. But sometimes, some precious moments, I lose myself for a second in worship of Him, in the glory of His gifts. And in return He lets me feel His presence.
I am luckier than most these cold, cold days: holding my husband’s hand as he drives me to work, savoring the quiet moments before the hoards pour in at 0600. My pup, so small, bounds into the open air. The long nights make my home more my home, and my feet are warmly held by new Christmas boots.