Blessed Lord, who has caused all holy Scriptures to be written for our learning; Grant that we may in such wise hear them, read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest them, that by patience and comfort of thy holy Word, we may embrace, and ever hold fast, the blessed hope of everlasting life, which thou hast given us in our Saviour Jesus Christ.

Amen.

Book of Common Prayer, 1928.

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As a child, books were my safe place. My place to hope, to dream. My window seat into other worlds. My unscrambling place. My place to imagine life in fresh ways. My place to confront the impossible and see the possible. My place of pursuing life.

Books are still that for me…a place of invitation: get unstuck, untangle what’s tangled. See afresh. Laugh. Weep. Travel forth. These characters look oh-so-similar to me.

A good book (fiction, nonfiction, poetry, prose) is a mirror. Shows me what I didn’t even know was there. A good book disrupts my comfort zone, even while it’s a safe haven. A good book dismantles barricades. Barriers that distant me from desire, from hope, from dreams. A good book grabs me. Hugs me so tight that tears cascade, stinging down my sobbing face. Hugs me so profoundly that I laugh way down deep.

A good book invites me to be more fully alive.

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Enough sorrows to sink me

Enough joys to keep me buoyant

And the God-of-Angel-Armies ever at my side.

That’s the epitaph of this year for me.

Enough tears to hollow caverns of sorrow in me. Enough joys to lift me from those carved canyons of sorrow. Always, always, in it all, the God who is Present, Father, Son, Spirit, ever by my side.

I’ve run to books often in this up-and down-year. I’ve poured over prose. I’ve played alongside poetry. I’ve reread books from my childhood. I’ve discovered children’s literature I’d missed along the way. I’ve returned to familiar authors. I’ve read books as new as the dew. I’ve read books enjoyed over generations.

Story mesmerized and healed me.

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So here in Advent’s waiting, as a new year begins, as I wait and wait for that celebration, for that Baby to be born again in my heart, I read still. I read the familiar yet ever new Collect for the Second Sunday in Advent  from the 1928 Book of Common Prayer. It’s fresh and old. A prayer that savors the holy Word.

Holy Scriptures.

Written for our learning.

Hear them.

Read them.

Mark them.

Learn them.

Inwardly digest them.

Thy Holy Word.

Woven with

Scents

of

Patience

Comfort

Holy Word

Inwardly digested

Nourishment of

Ever-hold-fast

Hope.

Holy Word.

Number One

Book of the Year

For

My heart.

Here in Your Word,

We’ve talked.

I’ve listened.

I’ve watched.

I’ve learned.

Here with You,

Father

Son

Spirit

I’ve entered in

Story:

Adam naming

Eve companioning

Those two straying

You still pursuing

Patriarchs

David

Job

Isaiah

Habbakuk

Believing and doubting

Wrestling and aching

Keeping heart open

Even in

Face of

Loss.

You still pursuing

Psalms

Veins of emotions

Pulsing

Of

Ache

Of

Hope.

Pulsing

Of

Worship

Of

Worry

You still pursuing

Gabriel announcing

While holding his breath for

The young girl’s answer.

Mary and her Yes

Even when it all

Looks mighty impossible

You still pursuing

Enemy tactics

Steal

Kill

Destroy

Put on the armor

You still pursuing.

Jesus

Life full

Full life

Younger son

Elder son

Prodigals alike

In ways

Only

Father sees.

Second touch

Healing’s not instant

Just ask the blind man

Or Lazarus.

Holy Spirit

Acts

On fire

You still pursuing

I read it forward.

Genesis to Revelation.

I read it backward.

Revelation to Genesis.

Either route,

Your Story

Eternity-wide,

Everlastingly long.

And always,

It ends,

At a Wedding Feast.

You still pursuing.

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Enough sorrows to sink me

Enough joys to keep me buoyant

And the God-of-Angel-Armies ever at my side.

Father, Son, Spirit, thank You for the Word written, for the Word Incarnate, the Word alive in this Story that is ever true and ever full of Your heart for me.

You still pursuing.

A never-ending Love Story.

© Lane M. Arnold