Neverending Advent Calendar

Three little faces watched the computer screen, a rare treat while visiting grandparents. An online Advent calendar offered wonderful animations set in the city of London, England.  Nine December days had already passed so there were nine windows to enjoy.

The children eagerly mouse-clicked on numbered Christmas balls to open up charming vignettes. There was a comic restaurant scene, a dog and cat chasing each other onto the London Eye Ferris wheel, a white cart-horse munching on Covent Garden vegetables, and three ships sailing one after the other under the Tower Bridge.

On one date the calendar allowed the user to decorate a Christmas tree over and over. On another page, the children took turns designing a snowflake of their own that then magically fell across the sky in the city scene. 
This interactive gift from our friend, Vi, was created by artist Jacquie Lawson

Three small bodies bounced with excitement after seeing all nine. “Let’s do the next one!”

Uh-oh. Hard truth strikes again. This is an Advent Calendar. You can look at all the days that have passed and you can enjoy today’s treat, but you are not allowed to open tomorrow’s scene. Little faces went blank. The children wriggled down from their chairs, turned to their grandmother and said, “Oh, okay. What are we going to do now?”

What a great idea Advent Calendars are, teaching children to wait, practicing when they’re young. When they’re older they’ll understand that life is like a bawx of chawclits, and also like an advent calendar that goes year round. We can’t know what tomorrow’s mouse-click will reveal. Meanwhile we wait. 

Waiting feels so unnatural to us that one man I know starts huffing and puffing if a red stoplight lasts longer than he thinks it should. My beloved knows that eventually the red will turn green. Even so, he finds it hard to wait a few extra seconds. 

 The church’s season called “Advent” reminds us of a cosmic waiting. The four weeks are meant to be suffused with hope, hope based on a promise we find hard to believe. We know that the prophesied baby arrived, but will there yet be peace on earth? When one of our own days is filled with more of life’s rotten tricks than it is with treats, patient waiting is almost impossible. As Margaret Atwood wrote, 

“The facts of this world, seen clearly, are seen through tears.” 

Can it be true that God will one day wipe away the tears from all weeping eyes once and for all? 

God doesn’t seem to act the way traffic lights do, no matter how hard we wish. God is way more unpredictable, as far as timing goes. But if the promises are true, then the Christmas angel’s reassurance makes more sense. “Don’t be afraid, there’s good news!”

 Maybe, like the three wise children, we can surrender to the hard facts of life, and turn to God, “Okay. What are we going to do now?” 

Is that the Alarm Clock?

In Vancouver there is a little boy named Dov, 18 months old. He is very good-natured, grinning far more often than crying.  Like all toddlers he’s funny and cute and wins hearts everywhere he goes. He loves books and cookies and playing ball, but what he deeply does NOT love is being forced to change what he’s doing. If he wants to run toward the road, only physical force will divert him. If he’s watching the screen on Daddy’s Iphone, you’d better put in your earplugs before you take it away. If it’s time to put on snow pants when he’s happy in the livingroom, good luck.  Dov doesn’t always embrace change. He doesn’t like to be changed, either.

Why am I still like a toddler?

If “the only constant in life is change” shouldn’t we be used to it by now?

Why do we often react to change with fear and loathing? Why do we assume change  will be for the worse?

Weird.

 Researching the source of that quote, I found that from Heraclitus to Huxley, thinkers have discussed the instability and unpredictability of human life on planet Earth.  Shouldn’t change feel like the norm instead of catching us off-guard?

You’d think that our life experience had been like the movie “Groundhog Day”, each day exactly like the previous one.  

We’re so shaken when familiar landmarks fall or new circumstances arise. I park at a favourite restaurant and groan at the “Out of Business” sign.  Instead of imagining the fun of finding a different favourite, I whine, “Can’t anything stay the same?” As soon as my husband and I get the basement floor re-tiled, our furnace humidifier springs a leak and we rant at the irony. Why are we so surprised? We’ve been on this planet for decades!

Maybe your older child had the skilled and friendly Grade 4 teacher so you’re shocked when your younger gets a new teacher nobody knows. Or just when you’re feeling comfortably confident in your current job, a tempting position is posted. Out of the blue a difficult decision is plopped in your lap. Why so unsettling?

Maybe it’s because we prefer to sleepwalk most of the time, like driving the route home on auto-pilot while we focus our thoughts elsewhere.

Although I often give thanks for the predictability of the Creator’s natural laws (spring always follows winter, and water always runs downhill in our furnace room), I guess I need to be thankful as well for surprising changes. No matter how common, change affects us like an alarm clock buzz. When we're startled awake, what if we could respond not with dread, but with excitement about new possibilities?

Recently I heard an interesting snatch from a video sermon. An athlete told about the football tackle that ended his professional sports career. He explained that instead of the natural tendency to cry, “Why did this happen to me?” he has learned to ask with anticipation, “Why am I suddenly here?” Why am I on this two-hour bus ride to an emergency room with my football trainer beside me? What unexpected opportunity or benefit might have suddenly arrived?

One of my favourite names in the bible for God is, “My Rock”.

Let’s see - how can I fit together a rock and an alarm clock? 

Baby God

She bounces into the cottage kitchen first thing in the morning, white-blonde baby hair frizzed by sleep into dreads and ringlets. Her pyjamas are a pink flannel one-piece. My granddaughter.

Although she has wakened all of us an hour earlier than I usually get up, my heart races when I see her on this new summer day. Anticipation floods me. I open my arms and she runs toward me.

I know that one day this pattern will change, but for now 2 yr.old Amelia Charis runs into my arms every time we greet each other.

With my widest grin and raised brows I bend down and scoop her up so that we’re face to face, with her whole length flat against my chest and belly. She clasps my upper arms as far round as her baby arms can reach, and tucks her head inbetween my neck and shoulder. I feel our bodies, so disparate, melting into each other’s warmth. Her relaxation is as complete as mine. I stand motionless as she lies against me in a full embrace, both of us lost in the feeling. For some reason, she doesn’t squirm in my arms to be put back down on her toddler feet, feet that have already learned the pleasure of running and dancing.

She is still.

I close my eyes so that I can focus on sensation. Quietly, I hum and murmur tunelessly, rocking a bit. I whisper, “I love you, Amelia”.  

She rests.

It feels like prayer to me.

Eventually, she lifts her head to look into my face. Our eyes meet and we gaze full on, soul to soul. I drink in her perfect, fresh-born face haloed by wisps of blonde, her flawless complexion and clear blue eyes. I forget what she is seeing, skin that blotches and sags, and my aged eyes.

She doesn’t turn away.

I wonder what she’s thinking.

Wordless, we hold each other and look long at love personified.

Ecstatic Union.

Mystery.