By Rev. Anna Blaedel ‘Tis the season, sweethearts, of so much more than we can possibly hold: a steady accumulation of sorrows that leave us splayed, and stunned. And we–exhausted, overwhelmed, and afraid–can become too adept at rending when we also, desperately, need to repair, recreate, and mend. Perhaps it is merely an antiquated story, this compiled account of angels and shepherds and flocks huddling under the cover of night; of strange visitors arriving from elsewhere and otherwise, bearing gifts of frankincense, gold, and the precious resin collected from wounded commiphora myrrha...
