On Saturday, Gerry and I went to see the annual Christmas performance at nearby Briercrest College and Seminary in Caronport—a dramatic musical called A Christmas in Caron, 1942. It was inspired by the real-life story of Royal Air Force cadets who came to the Caron flight training school (about 25 minutes west of Moose Jaw) during the Second World War. The entire performance was outstanding.
I held back tears at the end when the cadets graduated from flight school, ready to join the war effort back in Britain. I thought about the many young men and women who served and never made it home at the end of that war. And the First World War (the so called “war to end all wars”). And all the wars before and since then.
The world today is in turmoil. I suppose it has always been so. There is no point in making comparisons about the severity of turbulence any given generation has had to endure anywhere in the world. The fact remains that these are uncertain times; I’m not certain that any of us are prepared for what the future might hold.
Lately, I find myself waking in the night and thinking about trouble in the capital-W World and the lowercase-w world around me. It feels like we’re standing at the precipice of something big. A sense of having little to no control leaves a lump in my stomach.
I dread December. Have I told you that, for the most part, this month is one I endure rather than enjoy? It’s too loud. Too busy. Just too much. I know I’m not alone in this. Here we are on the third day of the month, and I’ve already felt myself on the brink of tears multiple times already over nothing in particular. January can’t come soon enough.
And yet . . .
On Sunday morning, we sat in the nave at St. Aidan Anglican Church on the first Sunday in Advent, the first day of the liturgical year. Alter coverings, wall hangings, and priest’s vestments that had been green throughout Ordinary Time were now deep blue for the season of Advent. The blue seemed to warm the space while ushering in a season of waiting.
For most of my life, Advent was little more than calendars with tiny chocolates behind doors for every day until Christmas. That changed in recent years. I’ve learned to appreciate a season that invites me to settle in and embrace the waiting while calling me to quiet contemplation. I wait for Christmas Day, the day we celebrate the birth of Jesus, yes. But more. I wait for Christ to return for all of us, or simply to me, at the hour of my death. I don’t know which will come first. A sense of memento mori (Latin for “remember you will die”) accompanies the waiting this year, not in a maudlin sense, but one of intention.
As the first candle in the Advent wreath was lit on Sunday, the one traditionally referred to as the “hope” candle, I settled into the season of waiting. This week, I’m reflecting on what it means to have hope, even in the midst of these unsettled times. Or, more accurately, especially in the midst of these unsettled times.
My faith keeps me grounded, but it’s not a magic bullet. I identified with the guest speaker who gave the homily on Sunday when he said he’s prone to bouts of anxiety and depression. Me too. I’ve never been drawn to those who act like they have it all together. (I don’t believe it, for one thing.) I pay far more attention to, and have more appreciation for, ragtag pilgrims like me who stumble and fall and fail and get up again to help those who are also stumbling, falling, and failing.
Anyway, it’s Advent. This week we lean into hope. God knows, we need it.
A beautiful reflection on all that’s swirling around, Linda. Thank you for this hopeful post. As you said, God knows we need it!
Amen and amen. Thanks for stopping by, Wynne.