O Holy Night proclaims at Christmas that a “weary world rejoices”; the implication is that Advent might find us worse for wear. Dear baby Jesus, I am weary. And I am feeling the invitation to sink deep here.

It was so surprising to me that I had to nurture self-awareness of my own sources of joy with unapologetic confidence. Of course I get surprised by new things, and then I get to add them to the list. As I age, the list is getting longer and simpler simultaneously.

Over and over again, I am tempted to do it all myself, to pretend like I don’t need others’ care, as though my humanity is a burden for the people around me. This is such a lie, and it is so obvious to everyone around me, even when I’ve deceived myself thoroughly.

Over the last few months, I have been thinking a lot about the way that places and spaces hold us. Walking through our old neighbourhood for the last time, I walked under aged elm trees, whose branches provided cover from a gentle rain. In other seasons, that park was a playground of snow, and a mountain of leaves. It was a space that held our family so beautifully over the last few years.

There is risk in the uprooting. Some parts of the plant may be damaged or die. But there is also risk in not dividing and transplanting. Old plants can become congested, overcrowded, and produce hard and bitter fruit. 

I have to remember the joy of my childhood rubber boots. It is such a messy miracle that the winter melts into spring. That water lays on soil and roots and rocks traceart beneath my feet, that water and bubbles get trapped between fragile crystals of ice.

Whether I am singing in church or rooting around in the dumpster trying to find the-most-important-thing-that-we-accidentally-threw out this week, there are piles of ashes and reasons to hope.