Waiting as Soul-Work

The season of Advent has begun, and the flavour of it, for me, is different from past experiences.

For a lot of my childhood, Christmas wasn’t something we celebrated, due to my parents’ religious beliefs at the time. I didn’t feel particularly deprived. It was just the way things were.

Then in my early teens, my parents’ belief system shifted, and Christmas became part of our lives. I loved, and still love, all the preparation for it … putting up the decorations, buying thoughtful gifts, baking treats and on Christmas Day, preparing a great meal for my family.

Then in my 30’s, I began formation for the Catholic expression of faith, and found out about Advent. It was taught as a season of preparation, which fit with how I feel about December in general.

Then about a month ago, I was privileged to attend a day-long workshop led by Anglican priest/poet, Malcolm Guite. He mentioned Advent as a season of waiting.

Waiting …

Something shifted in me.

Preparation, for me, is a series of tasks to be completed. In this context, they are (mostly) joyous tasks, but they have a feeling of logical progression and expected outcome.

Waiting, in my experience, contains a lot more uncertainty. If I’m waiting, I can’t control when the waiting ends. I’m not even entirely certain that what I’m waiting for will end up meeting my expectations.

I thought anew about the first Christmas story. Mary knew her baby’s birth was imminent, but of course, had no idea exactly when it would occur. She and Joseph left their home town to travel to Bethlehem as ordered by the Roman census, a journey that in itself was rife with uncertainty. She’d been told by the angel that her baby was destined for greatness among his people, but she had no idea what that would like like or how it would come about. She and Joseph were peasants, after all. Greatness wasn’t part of their frame of reference.

There was an Advent season over 25 years ago that gave me a taste of this kind of waiting. Our second child was due during the first week of December. My partner was in the military at the time, and was in Kosovo on peacekeeping duty. There was hope that he would be home in time for the baby’s arrival, but no certainty, just as there was no certainty as to when the birth would actually occur. 

I still vividly remember being unable to sleep, and pacing around the family room late at night, watching Christmas shows, as Braxton Hicks contractions tested my endurance. I thought often about Mary’s discomfort and uncertainty as I paced. I pondered the reality of how this very human experience of waiting for the pain of labour was necessary for the Christ to come into our world. It seemed to me, in the moment, that there should have been an easier way. Why was it necessary for his mother to have had to endure so much?

The season of Advent for us here in modern times has lost its connection with uncertainty. We know what we’re waiting for—Christmas morning—and we know when it will arrive. There isn’t much endurance involved. But that was not the theme of the first Christmas.

So this year, my soul-practice for Advent is to consciously engage with waiting. Rather than pushing myself to get all the “Christmas preparation” done as soon as possible, I’m choosing to just be with the uncertainty of the lights which aren’t yet in place, and the fall decor which hasn’t quite made it back to the storage room. I’m paying attention to my energy, and noticing what feels like an enjoyable expression of the season, and what feels like obligation. I’m even allowing myself to feel the unsettledness of the bleak landscape where snow has not yet arrived.

How does waiting speak to you at this time of year? Where does uncertainty invite you to tend your heart?