In my decade-plus serving congregations, I had time to prepare for Advent. Advent is the season of preparation, yes, but as it turns out, there's lots of preparation for the season of preparation. Even in busy years, even in the throes of Covid, even during the year when my pastoral colleague and I took turns weathering family and health crises during November and December, the flow of the liturgical calendar within the life of the church meant that Advent could be spent doing the pretty things - lighting candles, joining in music and worship, enjoying holiday concerts and events - because my job pretty much required that I plan for Advent and Christmas before the seasons started.
I'm in a different rhythm now, and there's plenty to unpack someday about the feel and flow of the academic year, and the way that this institution (and many others) build up to a huge Advent/Christmas musical performance that happens Advent 1, and then it's the end of the semester and finals and things are mostly finished and closed up around campus with a full week to go until Christmas.
But I don't need to unpack all of that to get to what I feel this year, acutely: Advent started and I wasn't ready for it. Advent is almost over and I'm still not sure I'm ready for it. Christmas will come, and I will feel like I didn't actually do or enjoy most of the things that I would usually make time and space for in this season.
This is not the first time I've felt unprepared for Advent. It won't be the last.
I get really frustrated when I don't feel ready for Advent.
And then I remind myself that all of our texts in Advent are pretty much about how both disaster and the inbreaking of God are things that we will never quite feel ready for, no matter how much back-up oil we keep for our lamps, or how many precautions we take in the face of wars and rumors of wars.
Advent is supposed to be surprising and unsettling. I mean, we're waiting, and we know we're waiting, but waiting isn't necessarily all filled with candles, twinkle lights, and contemplative worship. Waiting is also filled with the interruptions that get in the way of going to the holiday parade, and the fevers that push all of today's emails to tomorrow, and the wind storms that knock the power out so you can't catch up on Christmas move-watching, or a Christmas tree shortage that leaves you buying the second-to-last tree in all of town and hoping for the best. Waiting is about dealing with life as it comes to you, even if it means that you go through the motions for the first three weeks of Advent and then lament on Advent 4 that the season is almost over. Waiting is about all the nights that you have to rush through dinner, so you are a week behind on your family Advent calendar and your 25-day candle that you made special effort to purchase has only been burned through day three.
But here's the thing: I can be thoughtful and understanding and theologically tuned-in to this idea of "not being ready for Advent," and I can even get poetic about it. But it doesn't make me feel better.
Feeling unprepared for Advent might be the truest description of what Advent is all about, and it is still darn uncomfortable. Which, again, is probably honest and true and spiritually important. But no less annoying and unsettling.
The lesson here is that waiting is hard, especially when you're waiting for the world to be at peace. And waiting is uncomfortable, because you can't always stop the rest of the world so that you can wait in a way that feels cozy or good. And God surprises us, but not all surprises feel good, and disruption always has a ripple effect, and change takes time and work and emotional labor that we don't always have enough of.
So we keep sweeping the floor under the dining room table, and we keep putting the kids to bed with stories each night, and we keep falling asleep on the couch before we can do the rest of the dishes or stay up late to bake more cookies, and we keep feeding the cats and going to work and school, and maybe, in the end, the presents will all get purchased and wrapped, and the Christmas movies watched, and thank goodness for the full 12 days of Christmas, because maybe, by the time that Advent and Christmas are over, I'll finally be ready for them to start. And if there's grief there, so be it. And frustration, okay. And regret, well, that comes with the territory, too. Because sometimes the only way to wait for what you hope for is just to let go. And to roll with the ride, uncomfortable as it may be, and to sit with imperfection so that you can all-the-more desire what this refashioned and reborn world might yet be.