December is a deep month. The deeper I go the quieter it gets, like when I was a kid sitting on the bottom of the swimming pool. Solitary, echo-y silence while the splashing and swimming go on around me. A womb.

I think of him, still tucked away inside of her now, the knitting-together of him in his silent darkness, and the waiting. The stable a quiet retreat from the thronging streets of Bethlehem.

There is something in a birthing that cannot be shared. That only a mother knows. Dread mingled with anticipation and excitement. Pain and joy. Fear and wonder. Filling and emptying.

This is the deep of December.

Mary and I, on the bottom of the pool, together.