My Accidental Advent

You thought I'd forgotten about this blog, didn't you? No, no, it's just that I wrote some posts that were a bit too intense for a blog overwhelmingly read by middle schoolers. Sorry kids. Maybe I'll post them when you're older. Here's a peak at what else happened in December besides writing dramatic blog posts and debating whether to post them.

This has been the darkest December I can remember. I heard someone say it was the longest stretch Chicago has gone without sunshine in forty years. Between sunrise around seven and sunset shortly after four, the air hung gray and flat, heavy with fog and void of color.

Each morning I pulled up the blinds in anticipation. Would the sun come today? But always, I was greeted by the same gray clouds, like unwelcome house guests refusing to leave. The weather on my phone teased me, promising partly cloudy skies in the afternoon, keeping hope alive in my heart that my body would soon receive the vitamin d it craved. But the sun continued to hide.

Before this month of darkness, in late November, I'd been thinking of ways to celebrate advent this year. I wanted to commemorate this time of waiting, of longing, of joyous anticipation. See, I usually forget about advent until mid-December, and this year I wanted to really focus on the time of waiting for Christ to come. One of my friends was expecting a baby mid December, and that seemed like a really cool way to commemorate advent, though not super practical for me this year. Instead, I got an advent devotional. On December 1st, I sat down with my peppermint tea and my book, and set out to make advent meaningful. For three mornings in a row I read this book, dutifully looking up the Bible passages and trying to put myself in Mary's shoes like the 'questions to ponder' section instructed. But it wasn't working. I'm sure this book has been meaningful to someone at some point. But this wasn't the year for me. The information was entering my brain and staying there rather than moving into my heart. Kind of like when you swallow a pill that stays in your chest instead of going all the way down.

What was hitting my heart in early December was the darkness. Life felt bleak and dull, daily activities felt stale. I was a withered plant, slowly wilting for lack of sunshine. This lasted for three weeks. And then, on December 23, the sun came out--just as I was boarding a plane for South Carolina. Instead of flying beyond the Chicago clouds and into southern sunshine, it was the other way around. I landed in South Carolina on the dreariest day they've probably seen in 40 years. Rain. Gray. Dismal. I was still waiting.

Yet that was when I knew this was my advent. Not to be found in a cookie-cutter devotional, my advent was in the waiting and hoping and watching for the sun. It whispered of the waiting and hoping and watching for a different son, whose arrival would change everything.

Christmas Eve morning I sat in our hotel room, the sliding glass doors cracked open, and my feet on the balcony, mist pelting my face. The horizon line was a blur. Angry waves tumbles below on the beach; the waves were so loud I could hardly hear my thoughts. It was so dark. And I was tired of waiting. I watched two surfers run down the beach toward the water, the only two souls in sight. Despite their wetsuits, I was sure one of them would die of hypothermia. And I'd probably watch the other one drown.

And then, unexpectedly and subtly, the light began to change. The air brightened and lifted and carried my heart with it. The shadows cleared, and the horizon appeared. The sea became green again, as layers of clouds melted away and the air began to shed its fog. The rain eased up and I began to sing. One of the surfers let out a cheer as he caught a wave. And then the sun. I pressed my face into its warmth while my eyes squinted against the sparkling water.

Finally. The heaviness of the wait was lifted from my heart. I had not been waiting in vain. The sun had arrived on Christmas Eve. I remembered the picture my friend sent me the night before of her little baby girl, who kept her Mama waiting almost two weeks past her due date before making her entrance into the world. I think my friend understands the idea of waiting and longing in a deeper way than any advent devotional could have showed her. And I think I do, too.

"Arise, shine, for your light has come,

    and the glory of the Lord rises upon you.
 See, darkness covers the earth
    and thick darkness is over the peoples,
but the Lord rises upon you
    and his glory appears over you...

The sun will no more be your light by day,

    nor will the brightness of the moon shine on you,
for the Lord will be your everlasting light,
    and your God will be your glory.
 Your sun will never set again,
    and your moon will wane no more;
the Lord will be your everlasting light,
    and your days of sorrow will end."

Isaiah 60:1-2 & 19-20

What I'd Forgotten

Last week I was back at my college alma matter, where opportunities for people watching are in abundance. Especially if you need to know what's fashionable. Sitting at the library entrance is much like scanning pinterest. You learn that it's still okay to roll up your jeans a few inches, but that the messy top bun should now be placed slightly to the side, preferably accompanied by a cute headband. At least in South Florida. Truly, learning never ceases in life.

And how nice to continue to learn in the place that prepared me for my vocation and the real world.
Last week, Jordan and I spent a lot of time on the PBA campus. He, writing grad school papers, and I blogging. Spending time on campus reminds me of so much I'd forgotten about what it was like to go to college in South Florida.

I'd forgotten how little lizards would scamper across the pavement, as I walked to class, their tails curled up behind them like a question mark. They'd stop suddenly and cock their heads, looking as if they wanted to know me. I'd forgotten how the city is crowded with noise of motorcycles, sirens, horns, planes, and loud laughter of college students wanting attention. I'd forgotten the smell of grease drifting from the cafeteria, that used to beckon me to dinner, and now, ten years later makes me feel slightly ill. But I didn't forget the gentle rustle of palm trees that accompanied me as I walked across campus. I didn't forget the feeling of freedom as I jumped off my bike onto the hot sand of the beach, or the sparkle of the inter-coastal waterway that lit up my soul.

I'd forgotten how I used to walk self-consciously: fast, like I was going somewhere important, sucking my stomach in and glancing at people out of the corner of my eye, wondering if they were watching me.  Feelings of insecurity came rushing back as I walked across campus to the library. I had to remind myself that these people were three years younger than my younger brother, and should no longer intimidate me. But I remembered the time a stranger told me to smile when I walked; to brighten someone else's day rather than focus on my own insecurities.

I'd forgotten that in college, I hadn't yet learned it was completely okay to be different. Forgotten the panic that engulfed me the third day of school when other girls spoke of wanting to "go out" and find cool bars. I wondered if I'd ever find a friend; if I'd ever fit in. But I didn't forget the beautiful friendships I eventually found with people who accepted me not only despite my quirks, but because of them.

I'd forgotten Thanksgiving break of freshman year when all my friends from home reported loving college and having the time of their life, and wondering if  I was the only one struggling. But I remembered how one by one, when I told my friends how hard college was, they let out a sigh and said it was the same for them.

I'd forgotten the panic attacks in class sophomore year that I never spoke of because I was ashamed and didn't have a name for them until years later. I'd forgotten the anxiety that was nearly drowning me and how I could barely walk to class alone some days without feeling like I was going to pass out. But I remembered the comforting smile of the first people I told about my anxiety, who confessed that they, too, knew the feeling, and I would be okay.

I'd forgotten how homesick I felt in this place I now consider a second home.
But I remembered the redemption of the hard places.

It's a mercy I've forgotten many of the things I have, but it's also a mercy to be reminded of them. Because I am not who I was ten years ago and I am deeply grateful for that. I never would have grown without the difficulties. I'm tempted to laugh at myself now, for the naive assumptions and unnecessary worry. But I was just a college girl with her hair in a messy bun, and her heart in a messy place who had yet to learn that I wasn't alone in my struggles. That I could just relax, because eventually it would be okay. I would be okay. I know the college girls of today, with the messy top buns, pushed slightly to the side, who are walking self-consciously to the library, will eventually realize that, too. And I hope when they come back to visit campus in ten years, they are reminded of the hard parts they'd forgotten, so they can remember the redemption lying beneath each struggle.