There are untold stories waiting to be reborn and save us like the cries of our little Lord Jesus.
In our anxious Advent waiting, the pressure builds from within, like Grandma’s stovetop cooking. Yet, good stories take their sweet time to arrive, making their way over the river and through the woods of life.
Meanwhile, our untold stories drop deep within us, falling closer to the fertile Earth. Did you know that heaven and nature sing in order to show us how to break the silence?
We wonder as we wander around alone, stories dancing like sugarplums inside our heads, searching for words we cannot yet name, the answer to our silent night pain.
Hark the angels post in the newsfeed. Is there any hope while we bleed? Can anything good come out of this pain? Will God arrive in time, like a call to the suicide crisis hotline?
This scares me most: the chance that my untold stories slip too soon out from the sacred darkness of the womb. All is calm is not a balm when all you know is the tomb.
Advent is a time when untold stories grow inside. The breath of heaven guides contractions of truth, preparing our holy bodies for the all-consuming power of unpaid emotional labor.
In sacred blackness the collective heartbeat of our untold stories grows stronger. It doesn’t matter that we cannot yet see how to prepare the way. Truth comes anyway. All it will require is an opening.
Get ready to go tell the untold stories on the mountain.
It is almost time for our untold stories to be born.
Soon we shall sing: Rejoice! Rejoice! For unto us a story is given and we shall name them: Healer of the Nations, Mighty Counselor, Guardian of Peace.