I confessed some fears to Chris in the dark. A movie we watched that evening had an insignificant sub-plot line that pricked open a chasm in my heart I had barely remembered was there. I said the words in whispers, held my breath and then lost it to near silent sobs straight into his chest. He held me again and listened to my body's weeping motions, reckless waves that he knows well.
Our boy lay sleeping in his bed close by and I didn't want to wake him. So many times I've sobbed silently into a pillow or my husband's chest, so as not to disturb the rest of the world as she sleeps.
It's almost Advent, Chris reminded me in the morning as we shared more words. It's that time again. Time to confess our longing, to name the darkness, to cry tears for everyone and for ourselves. And it's time to prepare for God to come.
So I speak out my fears and light a candle. I meet the pain, look her in the eyes and I stay with her there, in the darkness. And together we wait for the coming of God.