introduction
I’m writing this sitting in a courtyard in front of a bakery in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in the sunshine, surrounded by golden leaves fluttering to the ground all around me. It’s the tail end of October, and the best kind of autumn day. A politician and a cameraman are at another table, and a socially distanced line of fellow pastry lovers circle around the back of the bakery. It seems like I have been gifted with the last warm day before the cooler temperatures are ushered in with a torrent of rain, and I am soaking it up, complete with a messy but deliciously flaky nectarine danish, and a mostly empty cup of too-strong tea into which a leaf has just flown.
Typically, I love autumn and everything about it. I love the air, the smells, the glorious shift from t-shirt to sweater, the way everything looks sort of messy and colorful, like a warm celebration- leaves like confetti sprinkling the ground. The light takes on more of a golden hue and everything seems to glow.
a messy and colorful writing spot
This year, though, autumn seems to mean something else. The warm days ending signify a transition back into homes, sheltering ourselves from the threat of virus, as outdoor seating becomes once again impossible. This year, the shadows seem a little deeper, ominous. A little more terrifying. The idea of spending winter locked away seems almost impossible. My chest is tight and I want to scream a bit just thinking about it.
So many people I’ve spoken with this year mentioned how dark this time seems. How it feels like a kind of wilderness, someplace outside of usual life where we are alone, and lost, and cannot find our way out. Someplace we have fled- for we needed to flee!- or someplace we have found ourselves in, either from circumstance, or from doubting, or perhaps something else all together. What a strange season of alone-ness. What a strange season of darkness. What a strange season calling for bravery and courage in a way we haven’t heard before.
And this, friends, this leads me to why you have come! Which is all to say, welcome, welcome, to advent. I have always loved advent (the four weeks leading up to Christmas, sort of what Lent is to Easter, for those of you who are unfamiliar) because I am entirely obsessed with Christmas. The general goal behind advent-as I understand it- is all about preparation of your heart during what can be an insane season, and a really difficult season for a lot of people. It’s about actively not letting yourself be caught off guard by Christmas, but taking a metaphorical breath to open your hands to receive the gift of what Christmas actually means. The Christmas that is all about God coming. To us.
I don’t know about you, but I have never needed to sit with that truth more than I do right now, at the end of 2020, at the end of a year where God seems so quiet we aren’t sure if God is there at all. Where we are so deep in the wilderness, we aren’t sure we know our way back.
My senior year of college, I was sliding into the depths of despair. I was distraught, and cried violently just about every day. I was in the middle of a relationship that was falling apart, seasonal depression had me in it’s grip, and every other person was asking me the question I didn’t have an answer to, the dreaded question every senior ever hates to hear:
“so, what are you going to do when you graduate?”
I was on the brink of collapse, needless to say.
That year, specifically the second semester, as graduation loomed closer, and anxiety attacks grew more frequent, my dad told me to read Isaiah 40. “I always read that when I’m having a hard time,” he said.
So I read it. And then I read it again. And again, every night for the rest of the semester. I couldn’t bring myself to read anything else, and honestly, I think it saved me. The chapter is all about holding on when you are falling apart, because God is stronger than the weight of your heart, and wants to hold you as you journey. It opens with the words, “comfort, comfort,” and ends with the promise that we are being carried when we feel too weak to walk. And we shouldn’t be ashamed of that! Right at the beginning, we hear the prophecy about a voice crying in the wilderness, telling us that one day someone will come and set all things right. It’s about hope.
All this is beautiful, right? But the thing that really gets me, that I madly scribbled in the margins of my bible, is the bit that says “a voice cries in the wilderness, prepare the way of the Lord...” (emphasis mine). In the WILDERNESS. The voice doesn’t go to the happy places where everything is fine. Jesus had no intention of going to the people who were fine. Jesus’ intention was to come to the wilderness, to the dark places, the rough places, the places where we are falling apart, where, despite our best efforts, we are failing to live any kind of good way on our own. Tripped up by hatred, bias, judgement, and systems, dragged down by exhaustion, unkindness, circumstance, and lies. This season more than ever, we are, each of us, in our own lonely wilderness. And the messenger cries to us- a voice in our wilderness- to prepare the way of the Lord because soon we will no longer be alone.
As we begin advent this year, I humbly ask you to journey with me, through the darkness and into the promise that a light is coming. I am hopeful that we can journey as a community, wherever you are, in this season that can be so very lonely. It is my prayer that these meditations can remind you that you are accompanied, as we wait and pray and reflect, and ready our hearts for a Christmastime that will most likely be quite different than any we have known. As we explore stories of wilderness, and as we learn to see.
Advent works best, I think, when it is daily. So I’ve prepared a meditation for each day of advent, beginning November 29th and ending Christmas day. This collection of readings, essays, poems, original songs, carols, and visual art created by other friends and artists I love will be sent straight to your inbox each day, if you follow this link or subscribe on the home page. My hope is that this can be a daily practice, that it feels like a journey we are on together, one step at a time.
Stay tuned for further reminders in the coming week, and in the meantime, follow, and share with people in your circles you think might enjoy or benefit from doing something like this!
Thank you for taking this journey with me, dear ones. This is a whole new venture, and I am so grateful you chose to be here. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
I’ll see you next Sunday!
-alyssa
