It's raining on this second Tuesday of Advent. Our dog paces nervously, as though she's endured a flood and expects another. She settles now on the rug at the foot of my bed, and I settle too, as though the rain is running through me, softening worn joints, loosening tight ligaments. Water runs down and fills the rain barrel, the drops amplified by the cavernous space. This is winter in southeast Texas—one day 75 degrees, the next 53 and getting colder—the rain and wind are signs of change. A rainy day is, I think, good for Advent. The steady rain makes me contemplative as it runs along the gutter, through the downspout and into the rain barrel. Reminding me of the never failing presence and truth of God's word. Refreshing. And sometimes overpowering. On a rainy day I tend to have one of two mindsets, and yes, I've had both. Some days I fuss and complain that the rain is obstructing my plans, stressing out the dog (which stresses out me), making traffic ...