Dark. Cold. Dreary. Is this how Advent should be?

If you were hiding in my bedroom yesterday morning, and you saw the way I longingly looked at my bed after getting dressed, then said out loud, "I can not wait to get back into you and under your covers tonight", you would think I was crazy.

Actually, come to think of it, if you were hiding in my bedroom yesterday morning, or any morning for that matter, one might argue that you were the crazy one. Possibly dangerous. And then I'd call the police.

I am just so cold.

Bone cold.

And my entire body aches.

Not sure what the winter blues to tick bite symptoms ratio is behind all of this, but it is dark and cold and dreary on the outside, and in this beginning of a season of hope, I am sad to say, it feels dark and cold and dreary on the inside as well.

Is this how Advent should be?

I overheard a receptionist ask a client yesterday, "You ready for Christmas?" and he responded with a resounding, yet unconvincing, "Yup! All ready!" And I wanted to walk over to him and ask, "Really? Honestly? You are all ready?? For our savior to be born? To welcome him into the quiet of your heart?"

And not to be rude. But because I wanted to know. I needed the help. The encouragement. Any idea that I could immediately put into practice, because not only am I so not ready, but I have not even begun to think about what I can do right now, to be ready. I feel stuck. Stuck in the dark and the cold.

We are in this transition---not us, you and me--but my family. We are in this process of moving homes, and so the idea of unpacking Christmas, while we pack up every other day of our lives here, feels counter productive. The tree is up and half decorated and I am good with that. Less ornaments to take down. But the rest of the boxes, filled with sparkle and glue covered felt, outdoor lights, and wooden carved shepherds...they have been sitting in tightly closed boxes in the upstairs hallway since Sunday. My desire is not to unpack and decorate, but to keep closed, drive them to the new home, put them in the attic (actually, I am not sure our new home even has an attic) and save them for next year.

And even as I write that, I feel assured that this seemingly scrooge like approach to Christmas, by the world's standards, just might be what God is asking of me. Just might be how I can prepare. Because Advent is a transition. From dark to light. Despair to hope. Empty to full. Advent demands we choose intentionally. Advent is about letting go, and letting in. Just as the branches are dropping their leaves, and the lush wall of green that used to hide nests and homes has collapsed; that the once hidden neighbors are now in full view, there is something to be said of this emptying. This dying. This dropping those things we cling to and hold tight in our fists, forcing us to be completely vulnerable, to stand out in the open; these empty branches and limbs that look so...alone....this dark and grey and dreary and cold...maybe, actually, this is exactly what Advent is supposed to look like.

We are all in transition. Things are changing, even if our homes are standing still.

You know, I have gotten very caught up in the past, with the decorations and the extra activities and the parties, and all those things I see other people do with their families, that only lead me to a place of chaos and noise. I get so wrapped up in the wrapping that I miss out on the gift. I get so pulled into the sounds of distraction, that I miss the silent and gentle way that Jesus so wants to be birthed in our hearts. And so I am taking this dreary and weary and dark and cold feeling, and using it to be intentional about the way I prepare. The way that I welcome this birth of our King. Perhaps I will choose a few favorite bottle brush trees for the mantle. And the kids stockings, of course. And I think it is crazy to hang outdoor lights as we love to do, just to pull them down, and so maybe a simple wreath, a crisp red bow, will do on the door. And the nativity. The reminder. The hope. I will take that out today. And the rest, the extra, the excess, I will pack away.

I do believe that less is more. Less time preparing the outside, means more time preparing the inside. And that is what I really need right now. The detachment of things and homes and decorations is no coincidence at this time. It can't be. God is too good for a coincidence. The donkey, the stable, the manger, the star. None of these were coincidence. And so with a trust like Mary's, I need to say "yes" to this unusual plan, and simply ponder it all in my heart.

Because the truth about me? And the truth about you? There is nothing we could place in our poor hands worthy of offering this newborn King. Nothing. But I do believe that any small offering we have, He will take, and He will multiply. He will be gracious. And so we need to ask, before too many days go by, "What can these poor hands lay at the feet of a King?" You see, I do not want to have a fully decorated home that has no room for Jesus when He comes. I want a fully open heart, warm and inviting, with plenty of room. I want to say, "Welcome, baby Jesus...I have been waiting for you! Rest right here please...you see? I have made the room!! This space is just for you. Oh, how need you, Jesus....thank you for being born. You are truly the only thing I need."

Winter is not my favorite. The cold. The grey. The dying. But we need it. And sometimes, we need to feel stuck in it. We need this darkness. It keeps us reaching for the warmth, reaching for the light, reaching for the birth of the only One who holds our real Christmas joy. And so let's keep Advent simple. Let's keep it intentional. Let's let go of one back breaking tradition this year, and offer that time to Jesus instead. Let's not ignore this darkness, or try to numb it with egg nog and cookies, but let's embrace it, say yes to it, wait in it, feel the chill in our bones, knowing that it will not feel this way forever. That this light momentary affliction does not even compare to the weight of the hope and joy and glory yet to come! Let's put what we see with our eyes away, and look with our hearts to what is unseen, to what is eternal. (2 Cor 4:17-18)

Let's leave in boxes what distracts us, making room for Him, when He comes.

Let's keep our hands empty.