When we dig in the soil and plant a seed, we enter into a cycle of restoration that produces wholeness in us. Our bodies are restored by the tilling and the harvesting, our minds are restored by the space such repetitive worksopens up within us, the earth is restored by the nutrients provided through the plants, and our spirits are revived as we become better stewards of what we have been given.

When we use the toil of our hands and not only our minds to bring newness and restoration to the world, we become part of God's healing process in creation.

It is now, at Advent, that I am given the chance to suspend all expectation...and instead to revel in the mystery.

The thing I love most about Advent is the heartbreak. The utter and complete heartbreak.

On Holy Saturday I do my best to live in that place, that wax-crayon place of trust and waiting. Of accepting what I cannot know. Of mourning what needs to be mourned. Of accepting what needs to be accepted. Of hoping for what seems impossible.

I am reminded that every day I have the chance to pick up a needle and some thread and add to the story. To stitch together something beautiful and unique, to patch a small scrap of fabric to the story, to the Story of God, that will be retold again and again for all of eternity.

Hanging laundry on a line is a very ordinary task. It is as ordinary as scraped knees and lost keys, as fixing the same simple dish for supper again, and again. Ordinary is most days, and Lord helps is if we overlook them.