a thrill of hope.

Yesterday began the season of Advent, one of my favorite times of year. Our pastor described it as a form of spiritual muscle memory, and I kind of love that analogy. We do the same thing each year: light the candles, read the scriptures. It's the familiarity that comforts me.

For the four Sundays preceding Christmas day, we focus our attention on Christ’s birth, and ultimately his Second Coming. What I love the most about Advent is the centrality of light. The burning wicks of the candles in the Advent wreath evoke a sense of warmth, peace, and comfort. Every year I’m always reminded of the passage in John, which states, “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:5). John, referring to Christ as the Light of the world, reminds us that He was sent to restore what was broken by sin.

Victor and I make the effort to open our home to family, friends, and their littles during this sacred time. We share a meal or dessert, light the respective candle for that week, and reflect on passages of Scripture related to the prophecy, birth, and coming of Christ. It is such a holy communion and a beautiful way to shift our focus--so prone to wander--back on the Light of Christ.

When darkness seems to win

Last December I was about two months out from the loss of Xavier; with Advent upon us, I ached for some sense of rhythm to my days. And so, I gave in to the call of the season and prepared myself for my first Christmas as a bereaved mother.

Even while focused on the Light, I couldn’t help but ruminate on the many instances where darkness did seem to be winning, specifically when I walked past our empty nursery. I questioned, doubted, and wrestled with the Lord, and tearfully inquired, “Where were you? Where are you now? And why hasn’t my world been made right?”

This year there's a lot that still seems the same as last year. Xavier's room is still empty. Our home is still quiet, aside from the attention-starved caterwauling of our cat Calliope. Yet we are so very different. Our hearts are forever changed, our marriage has been transformed, and the way we engage with community will never be the same.

Even more, we are still holding onto the hope of parenting a living child this side of heaven. You might ask, how can we hope after suffering such a loss? Why do we choose to hold onto the belief that God is good, and Christ will make all things right? And I counter with another question: What other choice do I have?

A new and glorious morn

The first stanza of the famous Christmas Carol "O Holy Night" goes as follows:

O holy night! The stars are brightly shining
It is the night of our dear Savior's birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
Till He appear'd and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

This stanza displays the answer of why we can hope: we have a Savior who has come to us. Yes, before Him the world was covered in sin, corruption, and eternal separation from all that is good. But with the advent of Christ we are provided rescue--a new and glorious morn. He did not only come, but he died and rose again on our behalf, conquering sin and silencing the grave. He is the thrill of Hope for whom we rejoice. He is the Light that overwhelms the dark.

I don't know what you are hoping for this Christmas season. A spouse or a child? Maybe you've been praying for restoration in your marriage or relationship with your children. Perhaps you're hoping for a new career opportunity, or healing from an ongoing illness. Though you may feel like your prayers are nothing more than wishes tossed into a deep and endless well, know this: the Lord hears you and you are not alone.

So come, won’t you join me in the wait for our King?