longing for Advent
I remember as a girl, a book my mom had that gave two scenarios of the holidays from the perspective of the mother. On the first, everything was executed and fell together in perfect layers of cozy and togetherness. Snow fell softly outside as the perfect pot of homemade soup simmered inside. Children came in rosy-cheeked and happy while she served a plate of hot cookies. Family traipsed in with fresh cut trees and tasteful gifts. Everyone was together, relishing in their closeness and the simple joys of hearth and home.
In the second, the scenario was replayed with the harsh edges and disappointments that often define our reality. Soup burned on the stove, kids bickered and tracked snow and mud in with their fighting. A husband came home late, and difficult in-laws arrived with careless gifts that brought strife instead of peace. As the scene closes, the mother slumps to the floor, covering her face with her apron as she dissolves into tears of disappointment.
I don’t think I ever read on to see what the point of the book was, though it strikes me now that it was hitting on something we all face in this season— the tension between hope and heartache. My mom had her own reasons for longing for that perfect picture, and when I was growing up she worked hard to make the cozy memories and worshipful traditions a reality in our family. I can appreciate now, as I didn’t then, the efforts she made and the heart that was been behind it, even as I bump up against the disappointments that she too must have faced.
And I do face them. Recently, I’ve thought a lot about my own struggles to land somewhere between a full-blown desire for the perfectly cozy home and meaningful family worship, and giving up all efforts in despair and lack of expectations. Surely (oh, my poor husband) there must be another way.
Over the years since we moved overseas, I think I latched onto the celebration of Advent as a way to make up for what was missing in our surroundings. We didn’t have any of the trappings, and celebrating Advent made me feel like we were doing something meaningful, something more important. But then, I got tired of trying so hard to conjure up Advent. It felt like it was entirely up to me to create, without services or a community who was practicing alongside us. And I got tired of trying to find meaning in a season that always ended in disappointment— in relationships that were still broken, or kids that were getting older and less enthused, or just life and its hardness. When I looked Advent in the face— the Light I was looking for just seemed… missing.
This year, I asked Josh— how can we live in this middle place between forcing something that isn’t there and giving up entirely?
I asked the same thing in my prayers.
For me, the answer came this past Sunday with a reading of John 1. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. John goes on to describe the light (Jesus) coming into a world that did not even recognize him as its creator, and yet he was not dissuaded. The very act of God that we are remembering and celebrating, was one that did not bring about a visible change in most of the world. Things remained pretty dark. Even as Jesus dealt with cosmic realities and powers, the day to day life of most people stayed very much the same. In fact, it got even darker.
I’ve been reading Fleming Rutledge’s book on Advent, and it has been immensely helpful as I’ve wrestled with my own disappointments in this season. She writes about facing the dark facts of our world, that without doing this we are fooling ourselves. She writes about the first coming of Jesus bringing disillusionment to many, and belief to some. She writes about the second coming of Jesus being our hope. She writes about St. Peter’s tension-filled exhortation to both wait for and hasten the coming of our Lord; how Americans love to hasten, and how we have to learn to wait. She writes that our works are lamps shining in dark places.
The truth is this: the darkness around me is very great, and yet the Light is there. One day, there will be no more darkness, and the new day will dawn and Jesus will make all things new, but until that day he asks me to just to be a little light. A little light shining with my small faith, and faithful acts. Those acts may look like reading to my family every evening over Advent even if they don’t care about it. It may look like Christmas Eve and the good of serving a table of people with a beautiful meal even if no good conversation happens. It may look like praying for my family, and loving the student or friend who is hurting in a way that I cannot fix. It may look like believing that God is at work even as the days grow long and the darkness descends.
I may not see revival or restoration or renewal (or I may— who can know?) and that is okay. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
A couple Advent-y things:
Fleming Rutledge’s book: Advent (I see so many people are linking to this right now— it’s all the rage!)
Caroline Cobb’s album for Advent is just my favorite this season and last. I have it on repeat repeat.
Free Storybook Bible Advent download.