Tag Archives: Advent

motherhood, Perspective, Spirituality

Preparing – in Patience

The Advent Wreath.

A holiday symbol already rife with metaphor.

  • Evergreen boughs = God’s ever-present love and care
  • A circular shape = love unbound and never-ending
  • Four candles representing the four Sundays – and weeks – leading up to Christ’s birth
  • The flames of the candles representing the light that Christ brings into the world
  • Three purple candles representing the majesty of the most high, our Lord
  • One pink candle, for the second to last Sunday – Gaudete Sunday, meaning we’ve almost made it! Our savior is nearly here; the darkness is nearly over!

All amazing, meaningful symbolism.

And then I took my children to an Advent wreath making workshop – or forced, if you asked my teens.

I had the golden ring to use as a base; my husband had gathered the wire cutters, I’d grabbed my pruning shears; our church was supplying the greens – we were good to go!

The six year old was quickly out. She spied a friend from class and joined in on a raucous game of hide n’ seek.

The sixteen year old picked out a few shell decorations and then retreated to her phone.

The fourteen year old stuck with me, which was a bit of a surprise given some snide comments. But even as we stuck ourselves and fought over holding the ring, we began to form the green wreath.

Ironically, though I’d strong-armed everyone into attending the ‘family fun’ event, I had to turn off some of my independent tendencies. I love to create and often have an idea of the finished product in my head. When one kid threw seashells into the mix and another wanted to affix the greens her way, I found myself fighting. Fighting against my fleeting vision, against my tendency to control, against dreaded yet pined for perfection.

And whether it was the soft flame of Jesus kindling in my heart or mom muscles that slowly, still strengthen a bit at a time, I felt myself pull back. I felt the slow wash of knowing it was more important to be close to my prickly teen than push the prickly needles into submission. I appreciated seeing the two sisters working together to adhere the decorations they’d picked out to our wreath (especially when the shell-picker-outer put down her phone). It was fun seeing my husband and the girls untangle and trim floral wire.

In the darkest depths of teen snark is the young person who just wants to connect. In the asymmetrical and untamed shapes of nature comes order and beauty. In the confusion of sorting out the useful from wasteful comes clarity.

Every Advent – every day – I have to work at preparing myself to receive Jesus into my heart. This year, on its eve, I received an unexpected new metaphor in its most familiar symbol.

Standard
motherhood, parenting, Spirituality

Where are all the people?

Today my daughter and I wandered into church.

New to town and in search of someone/anyone in the rectory, we’d wandered in there a couple months ago.  Apparently to her three year-old mind that signaled a routine.  So today after we finally did complete that unfinished business in the rectory, she wanted to go into the church again.

I hadn’t been planning on it.  I’d finished my list of tasks and was headed to the car.  I began to say we were done and could go home – when I paused.  Why couldn’t we go into the church?  We didn’t have to rush home.  And even so, I make time to do all sorts of ultimately extraneous errands.  Why shouldn’t I stop to spend a moment in the quiet sanctuary of the church?  And at this point in time, in my life, in society, a prayer could certainly be used.

Angela and I entered the dark hush of the church, a sacred feeling sweeping over me in a way that just doesn’t happen with the hubbub of a congregation-filled Sunday.  We quietly trod towards the sanctuary, my eyes on the golden glint of the tabernacle and rosy glow of the Christ candle, Angela’s moving from side to side across the pews.

“Where are all the people?” she asked.

Years of Catholic devotion springing to life through the sense memory of approaching and genuflecting on the altar, I continued forward without answering.  After we both genuflected and crossed ourselves – she doing a surprisingly good job for a three year-old – she asked again.

“Why aren’t the people here?”

Just like my initial response to her request to go in the church, I had a quick and logical answer – it’s not Sunday, there’s no mass right now.

And then I saw this beautiful little being standing next to me, a human in miniature, not even as tall as the altar, asking her question again in her sweetly innocent voice.

“The people should be here,” I said.

“Yes, they should,” she said.

I knelt down and focused on the image of Jesus on the cross, His presence in the tabernacle, the light from the candle.  I acknowledged all that He gave us and how all we do is ask for more.  And then I asked for more.   I asked for strength to give Him my all; to turn it all over to Him.  I prayed to remember this lesson my daughter had unwittingly given me – to go to Jesus; that I should be with Him there and always.

And I suppose, somewhere, inside me, I knew this.  I chose today, a week before Christmas, the midst of a week of trials and tribulations all around me, to officially register at the parish – a task I’d been meaning to do since moving in.  Why now?  The same reason I agreed when Angela suggested we enter the church.  Something inside me needed this lesson, this reminder, this preparation of Advent that always seems to fall short other years.

And it is no small wonder that it came from a small child of God.

 

 

Standard