Love birthed itself in our image as we had been made in Love’s own image at the beginning.
Love that holds us, flows through us, breathes upon us, is ever-present. Love that we yearn for and seek. That all the year we cry out to touch. Love, whose echo in our souls harkens for its origin. The fiber from which we are made, yet somehow seem to lose in the mundane of our everyday. In the great struggle for survival, its beacon becomes hidden.
And yet beyond hope, we dream. We return again to celebrate year after year. Time slows and a hush falls while the hours rush madly past. The veil between the material and the divine feels a bit lighter this season. A bit less definitive. There is magic in the air and our hearts can begin to remember Love’s voice. Love so powerful that it was not diminished by human indignity. Love that draws out the wellspring of itself in all that it graces.
There is hope in these days. Hope that Love can bring us all together. To Eden. To healing and restoration. That tragedy can find peace if not meaning. That sorrow can be embraced till it has reached out and kissed joy. That the pain in every aching soul can bring forth the birth of new life. That the lost is found and the hungry can be fed. That war will tire and fall into the arms of community.
We take in the Body of Love. We drink Love’s lifeblood and remember again for the first time that we are in Love and Love in us. As Love was born to us and for us and with us, we too are reborn anew with each remembrance of Love.
The mundane begins to take on the glow of sacred. We see the divine in the face of another. We feel Love as it resides in our own humanity. Against all odds we hope. We dream. Love does not let us close our hearts. They are tired hearts. Weary of pain. Wary of the next battle.
Yet Love lives on. In us. Around us. Inviting us to take part. Beckoning us into the dance. Welcoming the shattered pieces of us that it may make us whole again.