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