A storm is forecast to hit us hard. Sometime this afternoon, that’s what they are saying. Starting with freezing rain, followed by snow and blowing snow. Winter at her worst, showing her nasty side and there’s not much to do about it except stay inside as much as possible and wait her out.

Waiting. This is a thing I know.

Waiting for kids and husband and paycheques and Christmas. I’ve waited my whole life, it seems, for one thing or another. I’ve learned to be at peace with it, mostly. To wait without worry, mostly. Because it’s true, that thing Luke said about how worrying never added a single hour to a person’s life.

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There’s a part of me, the firstborn one, who has moved on and he’s a hard habit to break.

It’s got me thinking this Advent season about all the waiting. About Mary, of course, full and heavy with waiting on the baby king. And the Jews, of course, burdened and weary with waiting on the prophesied one. And Zechariah and Elizabeth and Joseph, of course. The months of waiting. The years of waiting. The expectancy. The hush before the birth of change.

Truly though, it’s not the waiting I’m thinking about today, with my firstborn moved on, as I said. I’m thinking instead about the Father behind with the child gone on, and I wonder at His letting go and His watching from afar, and His anticipation of the return.

The Father must have missed the Son. Don’t you think?

Because a firstborn son, when you are used to having him around, is a hard habit to break.

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