Advent

I'm dusting this poem off (the "little daughter" in the poem is now seven).

My little daughter has a way with anticipation
by declaring, as she waits for her favorite song:
It’s coming! 

And when the song plays once again
(on repeat, because she’s two), she announces:
It’s here! and she dances.

We live in a world of already and not yet
of birth and death and once again.
Does it make us time-travelers to be able to look
and see the baby, the manger, the far-away stable
as if we are hovering over it, like the angels 
or the quiet moon? 

And to be able to move forward
toward the time of the cross, of victory, of loss?
And then to take another leap
leaning over the pew, a Bible open
to “It’s coming soon”?

Time travelers, know this: as you step between
the twinkle-stars, the scattered hay, the plastic nativity
and the cross that closes the door to death
forward to the time when there will be no more pain

there will be a time when you will not be convinced
that this life in Christ is any more than a open loop:
a song on repeat, a strong beginning with no final chord.

Be assured, the end is already written
and we can anticipate it this way:
It’s coming. It’s here. It happened. 
Again and again. So why not dance?