I wonder, how was the first Sunday of Advent for you? Was there anything Advent-ish or sacred in it for you? Did you find yourself drawn maybe a step or two further into the holy spirit and attitude of Advent?
Advent is odd. Like many church words it comes from Latin (not exactly our mother tongue) and it means “coming” or “coming to” (but with a different idea of how God comes to us, and we come to God, than our culture and sometimes even our religion supposes). Traditional practice of Advent is also a bit at odds with our culture – or vice versa, like our plans and the weather on Sunday were at odds.
The choir was to present an International Advent Hymn Festival – a multi-cultured, even variously-tongued offering of praise to God for the coming of Jesus. A really wonderful thing. But when high winds, rain and ice made travel treacherous our best plans and hopes for the day were quickly undone.
To me the decision to cancel came as both disappointment and relief. And to Japhia and I as the decision was made en route via (hands-free) phone calls and I turned the car around on Ottawa Street to head home instead of into Winona and the worst of the storm, we felt both anxiety and gratitude.
Q: What did you feel when you decided not to go to church Sunday morning or when you heard worship was cancelled, and knew you would be storm-bound? Why did you feel what you did?
For us the relief and the gratitude were about having unplanned time together at home, free of outside obligation. A kind of home-and-family Sabbath.
But then no more than a half-hour into it, just as we were settling into the luxury of the day the lights shut off, the stereo stopped, the clocks went dark, and the furnace stopped sending warm air through the house.
The power grid we are on was down. And the strangest thing was that to the south starting with the street right next to ours all the lights were still on, while on our street and streets to the north everything was down. If only we had friends on the next street over, we would have felt a lot less alone.
But the house was suddenly darker than seemed right and we could feel the temperature already going down. Within minutes we learned candles cast only so much light against winter storm-gloom. And give off no real heat beyond a few inches from the flame. We began to feel the situation we were in.
Q: Can you remember a time when something suddenly changed for the worse in your life (maybe even just in yours alone), and you felt immediately powerless and vulnerable? At the mercy of forces beyond your control, and your own resources sadly lacking?
But good news! We heard that power would be restored by 2:30 or 3. With an end in sight and a promise of imminent salvation we decided around 1 to snuggle in under the duvet, and sleep our way through to the return of power.
On one level it worked. We woke around 4.
On another it didn’t. The power was still off and the house was only darker and colder.
That’s when the anxiety began to surface. Concerns about doing rounds of meds in the dark. About the battery of the feeding pump, if it were needed, not lasting through the night. About the unaccustomed cold compounding the natural anxiety of unfamiliar darkness.
The plan – Plan B (or was it Plan C or D by this time?) was to drive over to Japhia’s sister’s house just five minutes away. Who doesn’t appreciate a refuge and a saviour at times? All day she’d not been answering her phone, but we hoped she was home nonetheless.
When we got there, though, she wasn’t. All day we’d been phoning, and now we saw we had pinned our hopes on a dark, empty house.
Q: Does this situation describe what you, or someone you know, has sometimes felt about God, or faith, or prayer, or the promise of either your own or the world’s healing?
One thought was just to go home and have tuna fish sandwiches in the dark. Another – Plan C (or D or E?) was to drive to Fortinos where we knew it would be warm and light, have hot soup and a sandwich, and figure things out. The soup and sandwich were good, and the plan we came up with (Plan … you get the point) as we talked about it in our unexpected refuge was to drive in the car (warm) through the city (mostly still with power), visit old haunts, see the lights, and remind ourselves there still was a bigger picture beyond and around our present distress.
We drove for a couple of hours. Sam Lawrence Park was one place, so we could overlook the lights of the city like we used to. When we got there it was far too foggy; we could see nothing. But there was actually something warm and comforting about the fog. A cloud of unknowing – a knowing of only partial seeing, can be more welcoming and helpful than the all-or-nothing choice of full power or no power and all-lights-on or all-lights-off that until then we felt were the only options.
We also drove through old neighbourhoods and places we used to frequent. Stories, some not thought about for years, were recounted. Memories were sparked. We had a good time remembering, and in some way once again becoming, who we had been long ago.
Somewhere along the way we found out that 9 or 10 was now the promised time for the lights to be on again. By about 7, though, we had nowhere else to drive. So we somewhat gingerly began to make our way back home.
Finally we were in what we thought was part of our grid, and street lights were on. We saw light shining out from house windows. Still a few streets away from our house, though, we were afraid to jinx it.
Half a block from our house, though, I couldn’t help saying quietly, “The lights are on.”
“Don’t get my hopes up,” Japhia said.
A few seconds later, still tentatively, “The lights are on.”
“Don’t get my hopes up.”
As we rounded the bend on Witherspoon, I saw it. “Our back kitchen light is on!”
“Thank you, Jesus!”
Q: Assuming that “Thank you, Jesus!” was not just a figure of speech or a meaningless exclamation, but a heartfelt recognition and reverence of the good will and grace of God somehow being known by us in the unfolding of our journey through the night, how did it come to be unfolded for us? How were we opened – or maybe unfolded, to it?
And what about you, when have you been moved recently to say honestly and deeply, “Thank you, God” for something in your life? What does it take to get to that place?
The house when we walked in, was well-lit, warm and welcoming. We were happy. Shed our coats and boots. Checked the phone for messages. Poured a glass of wine. Settled into the living room. Slid a disc into the CD player. “Songs of Joy & Peace” by Yo-Yo Ma & Friends.
We listened to Yo-Yo Ma playing “Dona Nobis Pacem.” James Taylor singing “Here Comes the Sun.” Dave and Matt Brubeck playing “Concordia,” a re-imagined 12th-century Gregorian chant. Renee Fleming singing “Touch the Hand of Love.” Wu Tong, a vocalist in China, signing “Kuai Le” (meaning “Joy”) to the accompaniment of the Silk Road Ensemble. Amelia Zirin-Brown singing a deep-down, soul-shaking, heaven-reaching arrangement of “This Little Light of Mine.”
Somehow in ways we never planned, could never have imagined, and could only accept and embrace and follow step- by-step as best we could together, we ended the day with exactly the multi-cultured, even variously-tongued offering of praise to God for the coming of the light into our darkness that the beginning of the day seemed to have denied us.
Q: If Advent is an unplanned journey, what do you need to make it a good one?
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