It's snowing here in this midwestern city that I'm beginning to call home (after some seven-going-on-eight years). And, while the bitter cold that has rattled doors and shattered glass the past few days is not my favorite, there's a sense that winter is coming. And with winter, Advent. Hope.
It's cold and I wear gloves now with cute scarves and a vintage coat from my grandmother. I rush from the car to the house with my child and rub his cheeks and laugh with him at the cold. And with the warmth of the house, Thanksgiving. Hope.
The days are shorter and the leaves are on the ground and my more responsible neighbors have cleaned their lawns and put out the hoods for their rose bushes. But my rose bush continues to bloom, right there in the front of the house. I know that I need to cover it soon, perhaps tonight, but for now there is the garish pink of a rose against the drab gray. And with that color, Remebrance. Hope.
My extended family will be together in a week or so to celebrate Thanksgiving in bits and pieces of turkey and beans and pie and I'll probably need more than a glass of good wine to get it all down. But four generations of love and dysfunction will break bread together. And with that communion, Grace. Hope.
I am reminded this season of the great blessings that I have -- home and health and family and love and friends and enough of it all to go around. And with it all, Hope.