As we turn the corner into December, I’m thinking about what often feel like contradictory things. On the one hand, I literally purchased a giant gnome cookie jar and green napkins that say “ho ho ho” and “merry and bright.” On the other, I am grateful for the darkness of the early morning and the chance to contemplate this season of longing and waiting and preparing for the arrival of the Christ child, God with us. I wonder whether this back and forth—between sparkly outfits and humble beginnings, between magnetic dart boards (which I just put in my Amazon cart for my nephew) and the invitation to deep peace whatever the circumstances, between jingle bells and birth pains, between saying a resounding yes to the materiality of this world and saying an uncertain yes to the invitation from the Spirit of God—I wonder whether all of it is its own form of preparation. This is Advent in 2025, that’s for sure—waiting for God to come among us amidst parties and tinsel and twinkling lights.
I’m grateful for some companions along the way. This season, I’m using Lissy Clarke’s Contemplative at Home daily meditations to keep my heart and soul grounded. There’s also my own Advent devotional, Prepare Him Room, which I know some of you pull out on an annual basis (thank you!) and others might find it a helpful guide through the weeks ahead. And there’s this reminder from Tony Rossi of an Advent reflection I wrote several years ago about how Mary meets the news of Jesus with trusting surrender, while Herod meets it with fearful resistance. And my recent podcast guests have words that might relate to where we are right now.
Niro Feliciano, who talked with me last week on Take the Next Step, has a new book, All Is CALMish, which offers 30 short reflections filled with practical ways to stay calm(ish) in what can be a harried and frantic season. And then Leah Libresco Sargeant joins me this week on Reimagining the Good Life to talk about her book, The Dignity of Dependence. We don’t refer to Advent directly, but what better season in which to think about humans—including the human who came from heaven—as the ones who depend upon one another, and especially upon their mothers, for life and breath itself.
I’m tempted to sign off by saying: may your days be merry and bright! And I do hope that for you and for me and for all of us. But I also want to say: may your days be both somber and filled with holy longings. All of it: merry, somber, bright, filled with longing, drawing us deeper into the mystery of a God who loves us and comes to dwell among us.
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