Church was good this morning. The children's choir sang like angels, accompanied by an angelic little harpist, and the Gospel and sermon were about Zechariah arguing with the angel Gabriel that miracles were just not possible in his day, and at his age. Little did he suspect that the Almighty was just getting warmed up.
A modest Christmas shopping trip, a lovely modest lunch with my lovely bride, who is herself a miracle, and home again to the house we've occupied for nearly twenty years. It dropped into our laps miraculously when we had not two nickels to rub together, and a number of people close to us really really furious that we had met and married.
But I do sympathize with old Zechariah. He was tired. He had fought the good fight for many a faithful year, and was grateful just to be alive and able to attend to his wife and his life. It wasn't so much lack of faith as abundance of experience, seeing too much evil flourish and too little virtue prosper in his day.
I admit it: I'm tired as well, for much the same reasons.
So tonight, here on 6 December, I'm making out the Christmas card list, and trying to remember just how well it all turned out for old Zechariah, who didn't realize that Providence was on deck, awaiting His turn at bat.
No comments:
Post a Comment