I stood in the sanctuary, watching my friend's eyes tear up as I told her of a recent jubilee moment. "Isn't it just like Him?" she said, smiling. "It's like there are moments where He will just not relent and will come bursting forth in order for His name to be known."
And then she pulled me close and I felt the tears forming - the ones I hadn't been able to squeeze out because for once, my emotions were stunned into silence.
Last week, I felt a strong urge to enter into this season with a sense of holy hush - an expectancy that He could and would move mountains - a reminder of the impossibility of virgin birth and a Savior made human in a rush of blood.
And today, as I pulled out my word for these advent windows I'm searching through, I stared at the piece of paper that said visit and felt that familiar curl of my lip, the one that would probably stave off anyone wanting to spend time with me for fear of grinchy behavior rubbing off on them.
So I walked into my office, pulled out my art journal and started meditating on the word. This is when it hit me.
It is not just one moment out of a million in which we need His presence. It is not just one month out of an otherwise too-busy year in which we slow down and turn our heads toward the heavens.
It is every day. Every minute. Every moment.
And here, in this seemingly impossible moment, He visits. He stays. He teaches me rest.
Things are moving-yet-stagnant in our file at the adoption agency. We feel Him creating something new, even now, even in the conversations with our social worker where we wonder how to prove budgets mean nothing and numbers aren't scary when resting in the economy of Christ.
And so we wait, and praise, and rest, knowing that it is in this impossibility He dwells.