How to Wait for Christmas

W
henever Christmas begins to burden, it’s a sign that I’ve taken on something of the world and not of Christ.

Christ the Babe comes in Christmas as Christ the Savior comes on the Cross — seeking only our embrace.

What if I laid down efforts and expectations, perfectionism and performance, and simply waited with arms and heart and eyes wide open?

The Farmer brings home a quartet of miniature candles with the groceries, kisses me on the forehead. He is a wonder like that. I set out four lights.

One by the sink. Atop the cabinet. Before the hearth. At the window.

From the sink, I can see each of the four flames bold, oil lamps keeping watch.

Lamps keeping vigil for the Babe coming under a star, the Groom coming across the threshold.

Why do I usually let the oil go out, fume about Latin CDs left naked and ashamed in the study, throw up my hands when the boys rub each other wrong and I’m no Aaron or Hur and it’s my heart that grows heavy and I fall all the time and it needs to be in prayer and why can’t I keep watch even one hour? Who keeps the vigil this Advent and why am I not the virgin with the lamp, vigilant for Christ, and is it that the ways of this world consume all our innocence?

This is what is glimpsed from the watchtower, the window:

Christmas cannot be bought. Christmas cannot be created. Christmas cannot be made by hand. Christmas can only be found.

In the creche, in the cradling trough, in the mire and the stench and the unexpected and unlikely and only in the person of Christ.

Living slow is the way to carry an extra flask of oil joy for the lamp and living life slow is the way to see. Maybe I could learn? And the slower we take the days of Advent, the more places we find Christ and Christmas — and the Light that warms.

Into lengthening shadows, these four brazen flames burn, ready, waiting, watching. The hours, they can bungle and the Bridegroom is delayed and children whine, the pancakes stick, and dust lays down over everything like a veil — and yet, simply slowing, I see …

Christmas isn’t a product to wrap but a Person to unwrap and what can keep us from the yearning just for Him?

The Farmer, he heads out for evening chores. I watch him at the window. He turns and winks.

I wave quiet, smile, a burning heart… wait for his coming again, the paned glass reflecting the wicks keeping bright vigil, the extra oil of joy still left out.