Driving by Advent

I was pouring a second cup of coffee yesterday morning when my oldest walked through the kitchen on a live call with her school Chromebook. I couldn’t see the screen but I could hear her classmate sharing about her Christmas plans.

Teen: “I’m going to Florida to see my dad, but I’m nervous.”
Teacher: “Why are you nervous?”
Teen: “Because the virus has messed up my step-mom’s job and she’s all stressed and acting crazy about that.”
Teacher: “Are you driving or flying to Florida?”
Teen: “I’m flying.”

As my daughter walked out of the room and the volume trailed off, all I could think about is the weight and worry this 13-year-old girl is carrying. A broken home. A lonely flight. A potentially tense Christmas visit. My worries immediately began to pale in comparison.

I realize I don’t know a fraction of the troubles some people (even some very young people) are facing right now. But I still find myself feeling angry, anxious, tired, and despairing about this pandemic, this year, and our broken world. Even as the background music in my car announces this to be “the hap, happiest time of the year,” I’m alarmingly short-tempered, impatient, and critical of the people I love most. My ugliness is on full display. I’m going through the motions of the season but not feeling the emotions I usually associate with it. I fear I’m more appropriately dressed in an Ebenezer Scrooge costume than my “Holly Jolly Y’all” t-shirt this year.

But maybe there’s hope for me yet.

Just down the road from our neighborhood the Sisters of Mercy, a local convent, have set up a roadside Advent table again this year.

I’m used to seeing Advent wreaths on tables in ornately decorated sanctuaries. But the strangeness of this formal table sitting mere inches from a busy suburban road makes me think of the strangeness of the Incarnation itself. Something sacred and significant is going on alongside our errands, activities, and commutes. I can mindlessly speed by this scene at 50 miles per hour leaving the table cloth flapping in the wind. But God still chooses to come and dwell among us—whether we acknowledge His presence or not. He’s in the midst of our messes and our madness. Our anger and our anxiety. Our protests and our pandemics. Our losses and our longings.

Miraculously, He is the Immanuel—God with us.

This year the Sisters have added a lighted sign in front of the table that says, “HOPE.” I don’t know what one word message could be more necessary and true this year. Because of what Advent represents—a baby sent to save us—there is hope for ALL us yet. Hope for our messed up hearts. Hope for our families. Hope for our kids. Hope for our schools and businesses and churches. Hope for our nation. Hope for our world.

May we be people who believe it.

Lord Jesus,
Master of both the light and the darkness,
send your Holy Spirit upon
our preparations for Christmas.
We who have so much to do
seek quiet spaces to hear your voice each day.
We who are anxious over many things
look forward to your coming among us.
We who are blessed in so many ways
long for the complete joy of your Kingdom.
We whose hearts are heavy
seek the joy of your presence.
We are your people,
walking in darkness yet seeking the light.
To you we say, “Come, Lord Jesus.”
Amen.
— Henri Nouwen —