It started a week ago Friday.
Just before lunchtime, a phone call from the school office, asking me to pick up my son, who had developed a fever and cough. At home, he crawled into bed, slept for two hours straight, and awoke with only a trace fever remaining and a pesky but manageable cough.
Quick. Easy. Done. Right?
Saturday evening, my daughter excused herself early from the dinner table, curled up under a blanket on the couch, and put herself to sleep. One cursory scan from the forehead thermometer revealed a low but real fever.
Her fever would stick around all week, including multiple nights of spiking to 104+ degrees, many baths, much Gatorade and Pedialyte, and a trip to the doctor.
I would get a fever in the midst of this that would knock me flat out for two full days, plus a brief but intense cough that left me with four days of laryngitis.
I would miss my last evening communion service of the semester, the self-care holiday party that our office had planned for students, one of our last two chapel services of the semester, and, as insult to injury, I would feel fine on the day of the holiday concert I was supposed to sing, but would have no voice to be able to participate.
If I had previously held onto any illusion that I would be able to organize and enjoy all of the Advent niceties that I barely had time to accomplish anyway, a week of illness shattered any remaining optimism.
But it broke something open as well.
For the whole week that she was sick, my daughter insisted on sleeping on the couch in the living room instead of her bedroom. She pulled out her comfiest blanket and turned the couch into her cozy nest, where she would retreat to sleep, to rest, or to read through our overflowing baskets of Christmas story books.
As a night light, we turned on the lighted Christmas star that hangs in our front window. And we forgot to turn it off in the morning. For a whole week, that star just kept shining there in the window, night and day alike, illuminating our fevered nights and our mid-morning naps our gray, winter afternoons.
By the light of our window star, the kids, despite illness, teamed up to read each night's scripture and velcro each night's ornament on our family Advent calendar. By the light of that star, we ate grilled cheese and tomato soup when we couldn't find the energy to cook anything more involved. By the light of that star, my daughter read my husband and me endless terrible Christmas riddles and puns from the joke book in our baskets of Christmas reading. By the light of that star, we took naps while we healed, and drank endless cups of Gatorade and hot tea. By the light of the star, my son practiced Christmas carols on the piano while the cats settled on the rug behind him to listen.
And I can't help but think about how we all need a star like this for us in life - something with a constant glow, something that is shining and beautiful, whether we are able to appreciate it or not, whether it reflects our joy or keeps us company in despair.
We all need a beacon of hope that shines when we are feeling anything-but-lustrous. We need beauty especially when we are feeling most shabby. We need something upon which to set our gaze when we wake up feeling groggy. We need something we can depend on, that keeps us from feeling afraid, even in the middle of the night when we feel so very alone.
Maybe this is why we resonate so strongly with the image of a star rising over the manger (even if the birth narrative in Luke's gospel doesn't actually say anything about a star at Jesus's birth, and it's only in Matthew's gospel that we hear about a star, but in conjunction with the magi, who actually visit Jesus as an older baby, not as a newborn).
In our mind's eye, we picture this star hanging in the sky from the moment that God is born among us in Jesus - the incarnation as our deepest sign that God desires to be here with us, by our side, in this world, experience it all right along with us. This star that we imagine is a sign for us of God's faithful and holy presence, a presence of constant, never-failing love, hope, reassurance, and promise.
What stars are rising around you these days?
Where are you noticing signs of God's faithful love and promise?
Among steadfast friends and family members who show you unconditional love and care? In the beauty of creation? In acts of creativity that nourish your soul? In unexpected moments of generosity? In undeserved offerings of grace?
May you find a star this season, and if one doesn't emerge on its own, may you find yourself some paper, some scissors, and an obscene amount of gold glitter, that you can make one of your own, so that you have a visual, gaudy, sparkly-as-heck reminder that for all that is gross or unpredictable out there, God's love really does shine, without fail, for you and for all of us.
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keepingadvent