Thoughts on advent.
A look and a word that have been illuminating my darkness.
I thought about doing a post on how our family approaches gift-giving during the holidays, or how we ask each kid to identify one holiday tradition they love and prioritize those three things. We did this last year, and it was wildly successful (Sure! We can prioritize driving around to see lights, or snuggling up with a holiday movie, or singing carols as a family.)
This year, when we asked each kid to identify one tradition they’d like to prioritize, their answers were things like “Let’s take a weekend trip to Chicago!” 🤨 and “Ooh! Ooh! Let’s buy a new light display for the front of the house.”
No, they are not perfect holiday angels, just happy to roll up some cinnamon dough for a tree ornament. Yes, they primarily think that December is about the gifts they’ll get and the treats they’ll eat.
I don’t remember many Christmas seasons from my childhood with granular specificity, except for a few.
Enter December 2001.
I was a junior in high school, and despite the school parties, lights, and holiday cheer, things felt dark. Really dark.
I’d been dealing with some health issues for a couple of years that seemed to baffle my doctors. It culminated in a slew of tests, doctor appointments, and late night visits to the ER when I had such crippling stomach pain that I couldn’t breathe through it. I was on a rollercoaster of meds, mixed diagnoses, and a general feeling that no one knew why I was so sick all the time. (I wouldn’t get answers to these questions until two years later, when I finally found someone who helped me heal.)
At the time, this was the deepest suffering I knew. Others have surely suffered far more by the time they were 16, but this was the extent of what my body had endured, and it felt like I would never be ok. That I would never have energy or make it through a school week or eat my favorite foods again. That I would always lie in bed at night and pray my body would make it till the morning, pray that I would be able to go to college and have a family, and do all sorts of things that I felt my illness would keep me from.
It was in this dark moment that my mom and I went to a work holiday party.
During this season, my mom and I both took part-time jobs at Joann Fabrics. I loved working there with her. We supported ambitious parents during Halloween as they navigated big bolts of felt. Thanksgiving produced opportunities to find the perfect, festive fall quilting squares. My bosses were gentle- there were some days when I had to get off the floor to sit, or I felt like I would pass out. Having my mom there for most of my shifts was a gift.
At this party, we sat around my boss’s living room, swapping hilarious stories from the store. The cheer was high, every belly full of potluck offerings and holiday cheer. Most of the women there were middle-aged. I was one of the few teenage employees.
I remember distinctly how awful I felt, like my bones were collapsing in on themselves. I was frail. Small. Couldn’t eat a bite of the food at the table or drink anything other than water. I looked across the room, and my mom caught my eye, her face a mixture of worry and love. “Are you ok?” she mouthed. She knew.
I nodded, but it was a lie. I was far from ok.
***
I have this book of blessings that I pull out from time to time. As a person who didn’t grow up with a faith tradition that valued liturgy, I have come to love it as an adult.
Reading and reciting common words that ground me in my faith are immensely healing. It’s akin to a deep daily stretch or a morning walk.
This holiday season, this Advent, has felt similarly dark to the one in 2001. I’ve been dealing with new health issues, and while not desperate, the multiple doctor appointments, prescriptions, and late-night Reddit thread scrolling (I know, I know) have left me wanting hope.
I showed Demi my book of blessings at bedtime the other night and asked if she’d like to read from it together. I said, Which blessing do you need most right now? Under the heading “Bless this tired life,” she picked the blessing: For when the stress is getting ridiculous.
Ha! Third grade stress is real, apparently.
She closed her eyes, and I read it to her.
Then, it was my turn. “Can you read me the first blessing for Advent?” I asked.
She turned the pages and found Advent: Week one. Her tiny voice whispered these words beside me as I lay in her top bunk. Eyes closed. Deep breaths.
God, these are darkening days, with little hope in sight. Help us in our fear and exhaustion. Anchor us in hope.
Blessed are we with eyes wide open to see the accumulated suffering of danger, sickness, and loneliness, the injustice of racial oppression, the unimpeded greed and misuse of power, violence, intimidation, and use of dominance for its own sake, the mockery of truth, and sisdain for weakness or vulnerability—and worse, the seeming powerlessness of anyone trying to stop it.
Blessed are we who ask: Where are you, God? And where are your people—the smart and sensible ones who fight for good and have the power to make it stick?
Blessed are we who cry out: Oh God, why does the bad always seem to win? When will good prevail? We know you are good, but we see so little goodness.
God, show us your heart, how you seek out the broken. Lift us on your shoulders, and carry us home—no matter how strong we think we are.
God, seek us out, and find us, we your tired people, and lead us out to where hope lies, where your kingdom will come and your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.
Fill us with your courage
Calm us with your love
Fortify us with your hope
P.S. Open your hands as you release your prayers. Then take hold of hope. As protest.
This is Advent. Not trips to Chicago. Not trying to heal the world with trimmed trees or reruns of Elf (which I love). It’s sitting in the current darkness and stretching for that tiny flicker of light—the hope that the hurt of today will not define the joy of tomorrow.
It’s my mom locking eyes with me and asking if I’m ok.
It’s my daughter whispering, “Take hold of hope.”
Inspiration
🎧 Kate Bowler, who wrote “The Lives We Actually Have” (quoted above), has a fantastic podcast and a great Substack! During Advent, she’s sending out a daily email, and I just adore her honesty and perspective on issues of faith and endurance.
🎧 I’ve been reading a ton over the past few weeks (health struggles will do that!). Based on feedback from my paid subscribers (Hi! I appreciate you guys!), I’ve decided to send a monthly email to all paid subscribers with recs for each month. I’ll share some ideas for podcasts, books, shows, and anything else I find inspirational for that season. Thanks for continuing to support my work as a writer, entrepreneur, and for all the other (unpaid) hats I wear.
Creative
🌟 Our company just partnered with a non-profit that my friend Marci started and we will start offering paid internships to college students to work in music education publishing! If you haven’t finished your end-of-year giving, would you consider donating to help support our work? (And, if you have any rich aunties who care about representation in the arts, can you send me their email address? 😂). We’ve been running F-flat Books for 6 years on a volunteer basis, and everything we raise will get us closer to paying interns AND paying our staff.
🌟 I’m gearing up to write a lot of songs in January as part of the song-a-day challenge that I do every year. If you want to join me this year, send me an email, and I’ll add you to the list!
Thanks for subscribing and reading. I hope you see flickers of light.
Connect with my work elsewhere:
🎧 listen to my podcast with Kimberly McGlonn
💻 order my children’s book, Rosie Rocks!
📚 visit my fair-pay publishing company, F-flat Books.
🎤 get songwriting support through Songwriting for M.E.