On the Third Day of December
Close to 15 years ago I was working in the kitchen of our home in Ecuador and overheard the following conversation from the living room:
Child: When Mom and Dad die, I want the Nativity scene. I'm the only son.
Another child: No way, I get the Nativity scene. I'm the eldest.
Yet another child: Why should you guys get it? I'm the youngest. I want it.
I laugh about this every year when I put out the hand-carved walnut creche. Good memories. Thus, to avoid squabbles after we are gone, before leaving Ecuador, we gifted each child with their very own hand-carved creche.
Which still doesn't solve the problem of what will happen to it after we are gone. But then, I really won't care, will I?
I mark the days of Advent on my grown-up girl's Advent Calendar, set in the front entrance.
This morning, on the Gladsome Lights blog, I read this poem. Then I copied it into my journal. Now I share it with you to ponder.
The Bright Field
I have seen the sun break through
to illuminate a small field
for a while, and gone my way
and forgotten it. But that was the pearl
of great price, the one field that had
the treasure in it. I realize now
that I must give all that I have
to possess it. Life is not hurrying
on to a receding future, nor hankering after
an imagined past. It is the turning
aside like Moses to the miracle
of the lit bush, to a brightness
that seemed as transitory as your youth
once, but is the eternity that awaits you.
R. S. Thomas (1913-2000) Welsh poet