Candletime is over but it is not yet Advent. We are neither here nor there. Thanksgiving came early this year.
Transition is a dirty word around our house lately, as Atticus has been having a hard time getting ready in the mornings before school. I sympathize. I would much rather lounge around in my pajamas than get dressed for work, but that doesn’t make wrestling a toddler into his clothes any easier.
When it comes to transitions, I prefer step-by-step directions of what is going to happen. I want to cushion that difficulty for him, so I wake early and we snuggle and read Go, Dog. Go!. It helps: the extra time makes him happy, but he still cries.
In Advent we are waiting for Jesus, and then we will wait for the Magi. In winter, I long for the warmth of spring, and then I wish away the days until summer, and then I am desperate for the heat to break. This week I cannot find within myself the strength to wait expectantly. The days are short and dark. The cold feels like an end rather than a beginning.
Whether I believe it or not, the world is always in transition. Winter feels like death, but there is spring. New life. Rebirth.
This week, we wait.