A while back I came across a fun idea to blog through the alphabet. I wanted to give it a go, but then I didn't. And I didn't for so long that I wondered if I ever would. Then an idea to write a post about something I read popped into my head, and in church this morning it dawned on me that it's an advent post, and advent starts with A. So here we go. (Hopefully you can read a post on zebras or zoology or ziplock baggies in December of 2016. We'll call that a win.)
This has been a hard advent.
Family members have given up watching the news. Eyes are regularly filled with tears threatening to spill. People are dying, hate is filling the news . . . I met a woman who said she and her husband were talking about their children growing up and wondering what world would be here for the children they might have some day . . . and whether they should even have those children. Life is hard. And this advent doesn't feel much like a season of joyous anticipation.
Some advents are. Some years the air is bursting with excitement as we count down the weeks until the Christ candle is lit and all the presents are ripped open. It's more of a "Hey, you guys! One more week down! Only three to go! Can you hardly wait?!"
But this year. This year it's more of a pleading. A "How long do we have to wait? I don't know if I can do this another day, let alone another week. Come, Lord Jesus. Why are you taking so long?"
My oldest daughter and I just finished reading the Harry Potter series together. I loved them even more this time, reading them with her. The 7th book was especially meaningful, and I love that we read it during advent. There is a scene that caused those close tears to fall and my voice to catch so much I had to pause. My daughter looked at me when I did, both of us lying there in my bed. She just looked up at me, and I smiled while the tears fell and said, "This is life. This is what keeps us going." She smiled and nodded, and we read on.
A hundred dementors were advancing, gliding toward them, sucking their way closer to Harry's despair, which was like a promise of a feast . . .
He saw Ron's silver terrier burst into the air, flicker feebly, and expire; he saw Hermione's otter twist in midair and fade; and his own wand trembled in his hand, and he almost welcomed the oncoming oblivion, the promise of nothing, of no feeling . . .
And then a silver hare, a boar, and a fox soared past Harry, Ron, and Hermione's heads: The dementors fell back before the creatures' approach. Three more people had arrived out of the darkness to stand beside them, their wands outstretched, continuing to cast their Patronuses: Luna, Ernie, and Seamus.
"That's right," said Luna encouragingly, as if they were back in the Room of Requirement and this was simply spell practice for the D.A. "That's right, Harry . . . come on, think of something happy . . ."
"Something happy?" he said, his voice cracked.
"We're all still here," she whispered, "we're still fighting. Come on, now . . ."
There was a silver spark, then a wavering light, and then, with the greatest effort it had ever cost him, the stag burst forth from the end of Harry's wand . . . {Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, p649}
This has been a year, friends. Mine started with my dad in surgery to remove cancer from his body. Along the way between then and now, friends' parents have been lost, jobs have been taken, pregnancies have been deemed "high risk," Beirut, Paris, San Bernadino, Colorado, Oregon, airplanes have been blown out of the sky, and, just last week, a friend's 17-year-old daughter committed suicide.
Life is wearying, and this advent feels like more of a lament than a joy.
As the pastor said during last week's funeral, this in between is a hard place to live.
It is, isn't it? This in between when Jesus was born and died and resurrected and ascended and when Jesus comes again to set everything right can feel like hell on earth. It feels never ending, and I worry sometimes that it may be all consuming. This might be the death of us.
At least that's how it feels.
But then, there's someone there. Someone who stands next to me and whispers, "Did you see God right there?" Someone who lifts me up and helps me stand. Someone who says, "We're still here. And we're still fighting."
And then there's Hope.
I was asked on Friday what is my happiness. "If you really knew me, you would know my happiness is . . ."
And my answer was, "Hope."
My happiness is Hope. This year, in the midst of all this darkness and fighting and lamenting and crying I quit taking my antidepressant. The main reason was crazy, foolish even perhaps. But I also wanted to see if I could do it. And so far I have. Because my happiness is Hope. It's seeing a glimmer of God, of His people fighting, of all of us together lamenting His advent.
On Friday I was also challenged to share my happiness. So . . . I give you Hope. I wish for you, in whatever your lament, Hope. Deep-seated, rooted somewhere you can't even see Hope.
