I know I’ve told this story before, but bear with me one more time.
On January 1, 2010, I sat in the parking lot of Barnes and Noble and said a prayer to God. I had been thinking about the last decade of my life, how I had nothing to complain about, but also nothing “to write home about” either. I wondered if the next ten years of my life would be any different.
And I prayed to God they would be.
When I think back on this past year, I will always see 2010 as my crossroads year, the year when God presented me again and again with different choices and for the first time in my life I let Him lead me in the direction He wanted me to go.
In February of this year, a friend spoke about attending a wedding at an Episcopal church and I thought how I had always wanted to try an Episcopal church. And as soon as I had that thought it was as if God spoke to me and said, “It’s time.”
So I went searching for an Episcopal church and found this one on the internet that had a Narnia library.
And I knew God was saying “This one.”
I was so nervous about attending Hope for the first time on Easter, I almost chickened out, but instead I walked through those red doors and heard God say, “This is the one.”
Things began moving very, very fast, and I think I might have stumbled and fallen had it not been for how relatively easy God made things for me.
“Say yes,” He said, “to everything that is asked of you.”
Say yes.
Suddenly I went from someone who spent her summers sitting inside reading and counting the hours until school started back up, to someone who spent virtually every day at church.
I went from someone who never wanted anyone at church to know who she was, to someone who first stood up before the congregation in July to give a “moment in faith.”
I went from someone who rarely cried in public, to someone who couldn’t stop the tears when I knelt before the bishop for confirmation in September.
And now, here I am, 2011 is only days away. I think it’s only human nature to want to predict what our futures hold. It gives some sense (though false) of control. As we all know I couldn’t even predict what my Christmas Eve was going to be like two days before it happened.
And the fact is, I never could have predicted 2010, not ever. It is still so surreal to me sometimes.
All I can do, all any of us can do is be still, be silent and listen to where God is calling us to.
Finding a church didn’t mean that God was suddenly easier to hear. Life still gets in the way. Life threatens to drown out all that God is saying.
Finding a church is about realizing that your voice isn’t the only one calling out to God in the middle of the night. Finding a church is knowing that you are not alone in this world. Finding a church is about finding the eternal chorus of voices who long for God and adding your voice to their song.
There is an old legend that Blues musician Robert Johnson met the devil at the crossroads and sold his soul in exchange for the gift of music.
I visited the crossroads this year but there was no devil there waiting for me.
There was only God and with Him ... Hope.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Sunday, December 26, 2010
The Christmas Story
Every year our Christmas stories change.
Some years the story is good. We are joined by family. We get all the gifts on our list.
Maybe we’re even lucky enough to see snow.
Some years the story is not so good. Like this past Christmas Eve that I spent in the emergency room, reeling from a high fever and vomiting. It kept me from my first Christmas Eve service at Hope and broke my heart.
But the good news is that the true story of Christmas, the birth of Jesus Christ, never changes.
Two days ago, at the Christmas Eve service, I was supposed to do the first reading. I was excited at the chance and my biggest concern was whether or not I could make it through the following lines from Isaiah without crying: “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.”
Throughout our lives, there will be good Christmases and ones filled with regret. Those memories will always be there, but they will always joined by the only Christmas story that matters.
That God so loved the world that he gave his only son …
Some years the story is good. We are joined by family. We get all the gifts on our list.
Maybe we’re even lucky enough to see snow.
Some years the story is not so good. Like this past Christmas Eve that I spent in the emergency room, reeling from a high fever and vomiting. It kept me from my first Christmas Eve service at Hope and broke my heart.
But the good news is that the true story of Christmas, the birth of Jesus Christ, never changes.
Two days ago, at the Christmas Eve service, I was supposed to do the first reading. I was excited at the chance and my biggest concern was whether or not I could make it through the following lines from Isaiah without crying: “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.”
Throughout our lives, there will be good Christmases and ones filled with regret. Those memories will always be there, but they will always joined by the only Christmas story that matters.
That God so loved the world that he gave his only son …
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
New to Hope
Everyone has traditions at Christmastime.
When I was little, we used to visit my Uncle George and Aunt Eleanor on Christmas Eve and have a large family get-together. I saw family—all from my mom’s side—that I only ever saw on Christmas Eve. I remember that the men all played pool and I always wanted to play, but was never allowed near the pool table.
I remember that Aunt Eleanor used to give us communion that night and that I was mystified by the fact that someone who was not a nun or a priest could give communion. I thought that was the most amazing thing and from that moment on, I always wanted to be that person.
After my parents divorced, I don’t remember too much in the way of Christmas Eve traditions, mostly, I think because I was at one home and then another and it always seemed to be changing, but when I was in college and thereafter, when I spent the holidays with my dad, we started a new tradition.
Every Christmas Eve we would attend the service at his church. Toward the end of the service, everyone would take a candle and the church lights would dim and we’d all stand around by candlelight while the pastor’s wife sang “Silent Night.” Cory’s voice was lilting and given the setting and the candles, a little haunting.
After church, we’d go home, my dad and the rest of the family, and stand in the kitchen eating shrimp.
I’m not sure why the shrimp, but I know after we had it that first time, we had to have it each year following—because it was tradition.
I get to start a new tradition this year. I have my own church to attend on Christmas Eve. As the days get closer to Christmas, I realize just how sad I was, not having a church home all these years that I’ve lived down here.
There are people who only ever attend church on Christmas and Easter and for many years I was not one of those people. I didn’t attend church on any Sunday despite my love of God and my need to worship.
I was lost.
I was so lost that I just kept on walking, thinking I’d run into someone who would save me eventually, but like most people who do that sort of thing for real—like getting lost in the woods—I just kept walking farther and farther away from where I needed to be.
And then, this past January, I stopped and admitted to God that I had no idea where I was going and that I couldn’t keep doing what I was doing. It was then that God sent me this little church in middle of those woods I had been so hopelessly lost in.
My very first Sunday in that church was Easter and now I get to spend Christmas with the people who God sent to me to bring me new hope.
This Christmas will always be my first Christmas at Hope. It will always hold a special place in my heart. It will be a day I look back on for the rest of my life.
It will be the start of a new tradition, one of family and friends, one of hope and the promise of good things to come.
When I was little, we used to visit my Uncle George and Aunt Eleanor on Christmas Eve and have a large family get-together. I saw family—all from my mom’s side—that I only ever saw on Christmas Eve. I remember that the men all played pool and I always wanted to play, but was never allowed near the pool table.
I remember that Aunt Eleanor used to give us communion that night and that I was mystified by the fact that someone who was not a nun or a priest could give communion. I thought that was the most amazing thing and from that moment on, I always wanted to be that person.
After my parents divorced, I don’t remember too much in the way of Christmas Eve traditions, mostly, I think because I was at one home and then another and it always seemed to be changing, but when I was in college and thereafter, when I spent the holidays with my dad, we started a new tradition.
Every Christmas Eve we would attend the service at his church. Toward the end of the service, everyone would take a candle and the church lights would dim and we’d all stand around by candlelight while the pastor’s wife sang “Silent Night.” Cory’s voice was lilting and given the setting and the candles, a little haunting.
After church, we’d go home, my dad and the rest of the family, and stand in the kitchen eating shrimp.
I’m not sure why the shrimp, but I know after we had it that first time, we had to have it each year following—because it was tradition.
I get to start a new tradition this year. I have my own church to attend on Christmas Eve. As the days get closer to Christmas, I realize just how sad I was, not having a church home all these years that I’ve lived down here.
There are people who only ever attend church on Christmas and Easter and for many years I was not one of those people. I didn’t attend church on any Sunday despite my love of God and my need to worship.
I was lost.
I was so lost that I just kept on walking, thinking I’d run into someone who would save me eventually, but like most people who do that sort of thing for real—like getting lost in the woods—I just kept walking farther and farther away from where I needed to be.
And then, this past January, I stopped and admitted to God that I had no idea where I was going and that I couldn’t keep doing what I was doing. It was then that God sent me this little church in middle of those woods I had been so hopelessly lost in.
My very first Sunday in that church was Easter and now I get to spend Christmas with the people who God sent to me to bring me new hope.
This Christmas will always be my first Christmas at Hope. It will always hold a special place in my heart. It will be a day I look back on for the rest of my life.
It will be the start of a new tradition, one of family and friends, one of hope and the promise of good things to come.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Christmas Memories
The smell of oranges always reminds me of Christmas.
When I was growing up, every other year or so, we would drive down from New York to visit my grandparents here in Florida for Christmas. And I remember that my great-grandmother used to squeeze fresh orange juice for me and now the smell of fresh oranges reminds me of Christmas.
Christmas is a time for memories. Whether those memories be good or bad, they become locked inside of us, they become forever attached to Christmas.
I think my first Christmas memory is of my cat running up the Christmas tree and knocking it over, smashing all the ornaments on that side of the tree. My mom was worried that the cat was trapped under the tree. Meanwhile I was hoping that the cat had run away and would stay hidden until my dad cooled down.
Years later, my mom and I would look back on that memory and laugh. It was easier to laugh too once we bought an artificial tree that the cat couldn’t sink its claws into.
When I was eleven, my dad decided that he and I would drive down to Florida. It was kind of a spur of the moment thing and we wound up leaving on Christmas Day. Nothing was open and I remember eating a petrified ham sandwich from a gas station for lunch and then later being super happy to find a hotel Christmas buffet for dinner.
Every single one of my Christmas memories involves someone else. I think that’s key. Christmas is ultimately about family. It is about a family on the run, trying to find a place to stay when everything else was closed to them. It’s about the first child born to a young couple, a child conceived of the Holy Spirit, a child who would one day save us all.
It’s so important to remember just who was with Jesus when he was born. It wasn’t just Mary and Joseph watching over him. His first cries were heard by the shepherds and the angels, a whole heavenly host. His very first Christmas gifts were not gold, frankincense and myrrh. The very first gifts given to Jesus were people, people who loved him and cared for him and watched over him.
Remember that this Christmas. Remember the gift of people, the gift of family.
I am so blessed by the people that God has gifted to me.
When I was growing up, every other year or so, we would drive down from New York to visit my grandparents here in Florida for Christmas. And I remember that my great-grandmother used to squeeze fresh orange juice for me and now the smell of fresh oranges reminds me of Christmas.
Christmas is a time for memories. Whether those memories be good or bad, they become locked inside of us, they become forever attached to Christmas.
I think my first Christmas memory is of my cat running up the Christmas tree and knocking it over, smashing all the ornaments on that side of the tree. My mom was worried that the cat was trapped under the tree. Meanwhile I was hoping that the cat had run away and would stay hidden until my dad cooled down.
Years later, my mom and I would look back on that memory and laugh. It was easier to laugh too once we bought an artificial tree that the cat couldn’t sink its claws into.
When I was eleven, my dad decided that he and I would drive down to Florida. It was kind of a spur of the moment thing and we wound up leaving on Christmas Day. Nothing was open and I remember eating a petrified ham sandwich from a gas station for lunch and then later being super happy to find a hotel Christmas buffet for dinner.
Every single one of my Christmas memories involves someone else. I think that’s key. Christmas is ultimately about family. It is about a family on the run, trying to find a place to stay when everything else was closed to them. It’s about the first child born to a young couple, a child conceived of the Holy Spirit, a child who would one day save us all.
It’s so important to remember just who was with Jesus when he was born. It wasn’t just Mary and Joseph watching over him. His first cries were heard by the shepherds and the angels, a whole heavenly host. His very first Christmas gifts were not gold, frankincense and myrrh. The very first gifts given to Jesus were people, people who loved him and cared for him and watched over him.
Remember that this Christmas. Remember the gift of people, the gift of family.
I am so blessed by the people that God has gifted to me.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
It's the Journey
It’s that time of year when I could spend every hour of every day watching nothing but cheesy Christmas movies on Lifetime or Hallmark. My current favorite is a movie called Comfort and Joy.
Comfort and Joy is the story of a woman named Jane. She has it all. She’s wealthy. She’s successful, a vice-president at her company. She has an attractive boyfriend. But something is missing. On the way to a Christmas party, she wrecks her car and wakes up ten years in the future.
In this future life, Jane has given up her job, her boyfriend, her wealth and traded it all in for a husband, two adorable children and a church, where she is president of the Altar Guild. (I wasn’t aware one could be president of the Altar Guild, but good to know.)
She spends the rest of the movie trying to reconcile her old life with her new life and in the end, when her future husband claims to love both old and new Jane, she finally realizes the joy she could have in this new life.
It’s always at this part of the movie that I wish Jane could stay in the future, stay with her new family and live the life she was meant to live. But like most movies with this alternate life/time travel conceit, Jane’s visit to her other, better life comes to an end and she returns to her old shallow, vacant life.
Edmund, Lucy, Peter and Susan leave Narnia and return home through the wardrobe. Dorothy clicks her heels and returns to Kansas. In the end, no matter how great the fantasy, the hero of the story always returns home.
It frustrates me to no end.
But what I’m learning is that life isn’t about the destination, it’s not about where you end up, it’s about the journey.
In Comfort and Joy, Jane returns home so that she can live those ten years and grow those ten years and learn to live and love. She can’t simply fast forward to the end. It’s the journey that is so important.
It’s something that I have to remind myself of daily. It’s as if I see God in the distance and I want to race to Him and be there with Him in a heartbeat, but I know that the journey to Him is the most important thing I will ever do.
My mom and I have not celebrated a Christmas together in eighteen years. That’s a long story, but suffice it to say that at this point in my life it is distance, physical distance, that keeps us apart. But we still have our traditions.
Today the box of gifts she had sent me arrived. I called her and I went through the box and opened the gifts with her over the phone.
When she had asked me weeks ago what I wanted for Christmas, I told her to go nuts in the Christian bookstore.
And she did.
In particular, I was most moved by a cross that she sent me. It says on it “The Road of Ministry” and the writing on the cross says this, among other things, “Don’t run too fast, don’t walk too slow; but let God lead wherever you to.”
It’s the road. It’s the path.
It’s the journey.
Comfort and Joy is the story of a woman named Jane. She has it all. She’s wealthy. She’s successful, a vice-president at her company. She has an attractive boyfriend. But something is missing. On the way to a Christmas party, she wrecks her car and wakes up ten years in the future.
In this future life, Jane has given up her job, her boyfriend, her wealth and traded it all in for a husband, two adorable children and a church, where she is president of the Altar Guild. (I wasn’t aware one could be president of the Altar Guild, but good to know.)
She spends the rest of the movie trying to reconcile her old life with her new life and in the end, when her future husband claims to love both old and new Jane, she finally realizes the joy she could have in this new life.
It’s always at this part of the movie that I wish Jane could stay in the future, stay with her new family and live the life she was meant to live. But like most movies with this alternate life/time travel conceit, Jane’s visit to her other, better life comes to an end and she returns to her old shallow, vacant life.
Edmund, Lucy, Peter and Susan leave Narnia and return home through the wardrobe. Dorothy clicks her heels and returns to Kansas. In the end, no matter how great the fantasy, the hero of the story always returns home.
It frustrates me to no end.
But what I’m learning is that life isn’t about the destination, it’s not about where you end up, it’s about the journey.
In Comfort and Joy, Jane returns home so that she can live those ten years and grow those ten years and learn to live and love. She can’t simply fast forward to the end. It’s the journey that is so important.
It’s something that I have to remind myself of daily. It’s as if I see God in the distance and I want to race to Him and be there with Him in a heartbeat, but I know that the journey to Him is the most important thing I will ever do.
My mom and I have not celebrated a Christmas together in eighteen years. That’s a long story, but suffice it to say that at this point in my life it is distance, physical distance, that keeps us apart. But we still have our traditions.
Today the box of gifts she had sent me arrived. I called her and I went through the box and opened the gifts with her over the phone.
When she had asked me weeks ago what I wanted for Christmas, I told her to go nuts in the Christian bookstore.
And she did.
In particular, I was most moved by a cross that she sent me. It says on it “The Road of Ministry” and the writing on the cross says this, among other things, “Don’t run too fast, don’t walk too slow; but let God lead wherever you to.”
It’s the road. It’s the path.
It’s the journey.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Ordination
Yesterday I attended the ordination of now Deacon Pam at the Cathedral Church of Saint Luke. It was my first time at the cathedral, my first time witnessing an ordination—and I think the one thing I like best about being new to the Episcopal Church is all the “firsts” I get to experience.
The service itself reminded me of home, not any home in the physical sense, but a place of peace, a place of God, a place where it felt like God had His hand on my heart. I felt calm and joyful, protected and loved.
Maybe it was the incense that reminded me of attending Mass at St. Bart’s in upstate New York when I was kid.
Maybe it was the pipe organ and the choir whose voices saturated the air so that it felt like I was breathing in music, liquid, beautiful, music. It enveloped me, held me—I could have listened to them sing Handel all night.
Maybe it was Deacon Susan whose story Bishop Howe related in his sermon. It was Susan who had felt called years ago to search out Mother Theresa in Calcutta. It was there she learned a powerful lesson on what God needs from all of us.
“Did you work today?” Mother Theresa asked Susan.
“Yes.”
“Did you see Jesus today?”
“Yes … in the face of a woman who died in my arms.”
As Bishop Howe explained, Mother Theresa said the world needed workers, not observers, and that, Bishop Howe said, is the call of the deacon.
Maybe it was Pam who made this service so special.
Before the service started I saw Pam and hugged her. She was overflowing with joy. She couldn’t contain herself. Later, during the processional, she was practically skipping, her joy so infectious, it was impossible not to smile with her.
She reminded me of the joy I felt just a few months ago when I was confirmed.
When I was confirmed, I made a commitment to God.
But Pam being ordained, has made an even larger commitment to devote her life to His service.
It is no small thing.
To be called to be a deacon or a priest is no small thing.
To go and answer that call is even more astounding, all the more miraculous, because to be a deacon or a priest requires complete submission to His will.
Think about that for a second. Submission is not something that is hard-wired into us.
It is no small thing.
But there I stood yesterday and watched Pam and six others give their lives over wholly and completely to God. All seven of them are an inspiration to me.
Because I can stand there and feel God’s love and be filled with joy and want more than anything on this earth to serve Him and answer whatever He may be calling me to do.
But in the end, can I do as the song says and say, “Here I am, Lord. I will go, Lord … if you lead me?”
To say that and truly mean it requires, I think, a willingness to let God work a miracle in your life.
It requires you to say “yes” to the most important question you will ever be asked.
Pam said yes.
Six others, yesterday, said yes.
And there was a time during the service, when the music swelled and tears filled my eyes that I believed with my whole heart that there was nothing in this world that I wouldn’t give to God. I would say yes to anything … anything He asked me to do.
I wish that it were that easy. But the music isn’t always playing and the chorus isn’t always singing. When everything is quiet and still … when I’m alone with God … will I still be able to say yes?
Yes.
The service itself reminded me of home, not any home in the physical sense, but a place of peace, a place of God, a place where it felt like God had His hand on my heart. I felt calm and joyful, protected and loved.
Maybe it was the incense that reminded me of attending Mass at St. Bart’s in upstate New York when I was kid.
Maybe it was the pipe organ and the choir whose voices saturated the air so that it felt like I was breathing in music, liquid, beautiful, music. It enveloped me, held me—I could have listened to them sing Handel all night.
Maybe it was Deacon Susan whose story Bishop Howe related in his sermon. It was Susan who had felt called years ago to search out Mother Theresa in Calcutta. It was there she learned a powerful lesson on what God needs from all of us.
“Did you work today?” Mother Theresa asked Susan.
“Yes.”
“Did you see Jesus today?”
“Yes … in the face of a woman who died in my arms.”
As Bishop Howe explained, Mother Theresa said the world needed workers, not observers, and that, Bishop Howe said, is the call of the deacon.
Maybe it was Pam who made this service so special.
Before the service started I saw Pam and hugged her. She was overflowing with joy. She couldn’t contain herself. Later, during the processional, she was practically skipping, her joy so infectious, it was impossible not to smile with her.
She reminded me of the joy I felt just a few months ago when I was confirmed.
When I was confirmed, I made a commitment to God.
But Pam being ordained, has made an even larger commitment to devote her life to His service.
It is no small thing.
To be called to be a deacon or a priest is no small thing.
To go and answer that call is even more astounding, all the more miraculous, because to be a deacon or a priest requires complete submission to His will.
Think about that for a second. Submission is not something that is hard-wired into us.
It is no small thing.
But there I stood yesterday and watched Pam and six others give their lives over wholly and completely to God. All seven of them are an inspiration to me.
Because I can stand there and feel God’s love and be filled with joy and want more than anything on this earth to serve Him and answer whatever He may be calling me to do.
But in the end, can I do as the song says and say, “Here I am, Lord. I will go, Lord … if you lead me?”
To say that and truly mean it requires, I think, a willingness to let God work a miracle in your life.
It requires you to say “yes” to the most important question you will ever be asked.
Pam said yes.
Six others, yesterday, said yes.
And there was a time during the service, when the music swelled and tears filled my eyes that I believed with my whole heart that there was nothing in this world that I wouldn’t give to God. I would say yes to anything … anything He asked me to do.
I wish that it were that easy. But the music isn’t always playing and the chorus isn’t always singing. When everything is quiet and still … when I’m alone with God … will I still be able to say yes?
Yes.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Advent
Every year my mom sends me an Advent calendar. (And if she forgets, I remind her like I did Monday night on the phone.)
My favorite of these calendars wasn’t a calendar at all. It was a cabinet filled with many doors and behind each door was an ornament, one to hang on the tree each day until Christmas.
When I was a kid I loved Advent calendars. Popping open the little paper doors each morning to see what was on the other side, was a gift in and of itself. And if anyone other than Santa appeared behind that final door, I was horribly disappointed.
As an adult, I think the Advent calendar holds a different meaning. It still rekindles that childlike joy of Christmas anticipation, but, this year in particular, it will help me stay focused on each day leading to Christmas and not get lost, as it’s easy to do, in the shopping mania, the craziness that surrounds the holiday and has nothing to do with the birth of Jesus.
It is as if we live in a world of two Christmases. And I want to celebrate the one that begins its story with a baby in a manger. And I admit it’s a story that sometimes I lose sight of in a crowd of competing messages.
Everything is a jumble, December days threaten to fly by, just nicking Christmas on their way to January.
I want things to slow down. I want to treasure each day, but I’m already caught up in the chaos.
But then in the midst of everything, a voice calls out.
A voice from the book of Romans. This past Sunday our second reading came from Romans 13:11-14. Paul seems almost surprisingly gentle when he writes: “You know what time it is, how it is now the moment for you to wake from sleep. For salvation is nearer to us now than when we became believers.”
What beautiful words.
Yes, Paul is talking about Jesus’ return some time in our future, but his words also remind me of the promise and hope of Jesus’ birth.
Advent is not a race. Advent is the time given to us to wake. It is more than days marked on a calendar. Advent is the time to make ready. Advent is the time to rejoice at the good news. Advent is Christmas Eve every day. It is waiting. It is hope. It is longing. It is anticipation that explodes with joy with the birth of Jesus.
Wake up, Paul says.
Wake up.
Wake up.
Salvation is near.
My favorite of these calendars wasn’t a calendar at all. It was a cabinet filled with many doors and behind each door was an ornament, one to hang on the tree each day until Christmas.
When I was a kid I loved Advent calendars. Popping open the little paper doors each morning to see what was on the other side, was a gift in and of itself. And if anyone other than Santa appeared behind that final door, I was horribly disappointed.
As an adult, I think the Advent calendar holds a different meaning. It still rekindles that childlike joy of Christmas anticipation, but, this year in particular, it will help me stay focused on each day leading to Christmas and not get lost, as it’s easy to do, in the shopping mania, the craziness that surrounds the holiday and has nothing to do with the birth of Jesus.
It is as if we live in a world of two Christmases. And I want to celebrate the one that begins its story with a baby in a manger. And I admit it’s a story that sometimes I lose sight of in a crowd of competing messages.
Everything is a jumble, December days threaten to fly by, just nicking Christmas on their way to January.
I want things to slow down. I want to treasure each day, but I’m already caught up in the chaos.
But then in the midst of everything, a voice calls out.
A voice from the book of Romans. This past Sunday our second reading came from Romans 13:11-14. Paul seems almost surprisingly gentle when he writes: “You know what time it is, how it is now the moment for you to wake from sleep. For salvation is nearer to us now than when we became believers.”
What beautiful words.
Yes, Paul is talking about Jesus’ return some time in our future, but his words also remind me of the promise and hope of Jesus’ birth.
Advent is not a race. Advent is the time given to us to wake. It is more than days marked on a calendar. Advent is the time to make ready. Advent is the time to rejoice at the good news. Advent is Christmas Eve every day. It is waiting. It is hope. It is longing. It is anticipation that explodes with joy with the birth of Jesus.
Wake up, Paul says.
Wake up.
Wake up.
Salvation is near.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)