Part of solving the medical havoc of October entailed health insurance changes the firsts of October, November, and for the fun of it, December, but all seems to be soothed for now. I'll complain Ben's wheelchair is still in need of one of the repairs he's been working on since the summer, but he's making do.
Gigi and I took a turn serving the hungry with the Missionaries of Charity and sold Christmas trees at the church tree lot. She ended her volleyball season and got to be an Advent dancer in a school prayer service. She had her high school interview, made a pi Pie for her math teacher, and sold a record number of Advent candles for the Little Flowers, being her last chance at the table.
When we moved into our house over 12 years ago the realtor commented that the house in disrepair next door would be torn down within the year. Nearly every house on our side of the street has been demolished and replaced with infill since then, but her prediction was off by 12 years. It's a little noisy in my home office, but I'm like a toddler boy fascinated by the diggers and dozers that creep past my window squashing siding, moving earth, and felling trees.
Attendance at our traditional open door Thanksgiving took a bit of a hit due to under weathered family members which scared off all but the bravest of souls.
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I was at Mass one day recently looking at the golden tabernacle that holds the Eucharist, that we believe to be truly Jesus, body, blood, soul, and divinity and pondered why He would choose to leave the perfection of heaven, to be in all the tabernacles of the world so that he could come to us, even unworthy little me, then thought of the manner that He chose to do this, through the sinless vessel of Mary, another more worthily created tabernacle, as a vulnerable unborn baby to be delivered in the hay. But that's just how crazy in love Jesus is with us. He yearns to cover the lowliest, the darkest corners, the hidden places. I wrote this little reflection and since then have been asking Mary to help make me into a little manger before every Eucharist, an offered unworthy resting place in which to adore Him, just like He wants.
I am not worthy that You should enter under my roof. But If I imagine myself like the lowly feeding trough, the manger found in the cold musty cave. Mary could possibly see within me a needs must place that could make do for a little while. She could see more in me. Dust me off, make my rough places smooth, clear away what offends and allow me to be a temporary resting place for you, Lord. Mary, if it pleases you, make me into a little manger for Jesus. Nestle Him beneath my heart, cradle His sweet little newborn body pressed into the simple linens you’ve arranged for His nesting comfort, and come, let us adore Him. How vulnerable and humble our Lord, to be descended among the scraps and lowing. How can it be that my Lord should come to me? We adore You. We consume You, and little by little we become a little crumb more like You. Rather, we adore You. You allow us to consume You, and we pray to one day become consumed by You.
