Wait for the Lord;
     be strong, and let your heart take courage;
     wait for the Lord.
     —Psalm 27:14 (NRSV)

When I was growing up we didn't celebrate Advent. Actually, I didn't really know much about it until my children started attending Catholic school. My religious education was limited, as the catechism classes I attended finished sometime around fifth grade. Even when I thought I understood what Advent was all about, my idea of preparing for Christmas consisted of decorating the house, making gift lists on index cards, and buying enough chocolate chips for the hundreds of cookies I planned to bake.

As time went on and the often uncomfortable stirrings that accompany spiritual growth continued to manifest themselves, I became more and more dissatisfied with my Advent experience. I bought the Advent wreath, the colored candles, the book of Advent prayers. I took my family to the parish Advent covered-dish dinner and attended a program or two at neighboring parishes. I did whatever I could think of to make Advent more meaningful as we waited for Christ's coming at Christmas—but I continued to miss the mark, and the message, as we succumbed to Christmas fever.

Then, in his typical “I'll do it my way” approach, God used my weakness to nurture a moment of insight.

I got sick. It started a few days before Thanksgiving, and by that Thursday afternoon I was relegated to a chair in the living room with my “best friends”—a Dallas Cowboy's blanket, a bottomless cup of tea, a large box of tissues, and the remote control. For four days I stayed there, too sick to decorate, too sick to go to Mass, too sick to sing with the choir, too sick for Thanksgiving leftovers.

Reading gave me a headache and talking started violent coughing spells. So I sat bundled up with nothing to do but wait.

And in the waiting I spent a lot of time in deep thought and, finally, struck up some quiet conversation with God. I almost expected him to groan, “Not you again,” but with divine graciousness he listened to my sighs, my concerns, my doubts, and my thank-yous.

I told him how terribly lonely I felt without my parents though I was constantly surrounded by a house full of people. Thoughts of my son in California and two others away at college echoed the inevitable pain of separation.

I admitted I wasn't looking forward to the holidays this year because there was a cavernous void in my life that couldn't be filled with tinsel and garland, presents, or mistletoe. Advent wasn't going to be any better this year, I objected.

Suddenly, I envisioned my parents coming up the front porch. I saw their smiles as I ran to the door and reached out with joyful tears to embrace them. My father whispered in my ear, “This is Advent.” As the image disappeared, I smiled to myself.

It was in the silent waiting, the praying, the listening, and not simply the doing, that I opened my heart to God and learned that Advent prepares us to embrace the Lord, not simply encounter him.

The last thank-you to my Father that day was for not giving up on a child in process—me—and for making sure that this and future Christmases would be times of embracing the best gift of all.
 

For a child has been born for us,
     a son given to us;
authority rests upon his shoulders;
     and he is named
Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
     Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
His authority shall grow continually,
     and there shall be endless peace
for the throne of David and his kingdom.
     —Isaiah 9:5-6 (NRSV)
     WRITTEN SOME 700 YEARS BEFORE THE BIRTH OF CHRIST