Advent 1.6: Iron ice and flashing flame.


God of ice and God of flames:
You feel the frigid wind and the roaring heat.
You know the fear of sleeping on the frozen sidewalks.
You know the ache of fleeing from a beloved home engulfed.
You feel, you know, because you too have walked on this earth.
Sometimes it is hard to believe that you are greater than these magnificent and pounding hearts of nature
that bring us peace and chaos, horror and awe.
How can there be something, anything, more powerful than these,
such capacity to destroy, the ability to bring life to a sudden halt?
It is difficult to fathom. And mostly, trying to fathom it often falls by the wayside.
I know I cannot fully understand, and so I do not try.
But it is easier, sometimes, when I try to believe that you dwelt among us.
That you took your power and might and placed it like a shining beacon in a woman's son.
(I think of Ron and the Deluminator, if I'm being honest.)
That the all-knowing matchless strength met the day-to-day imperfect vulnerability.
That they intertwined and walked on land and sea; shook hands, and blessed, and laughed through tears.
Yes, sometimes it is easier to believe, depending on the day, or the doubt, or the disaster.
We your people are overcome by your nature, your wind and snow and fire;
God in human clothes can feel hard to find.
Until you see neighbors being neighbors, even when houses have burned to ash.
Until you smell the food being served and hear the cheer being shared with those who have lost any home they had.
Until the nice person one lane over lets you merge slowly on an icy road.
Until you look for handshakes, blessings, laughter through tears.
Then, for a moment, it becomes easier to believe that you were here, and are,
even in the midst of iron ice and flashing flame.