forget.

"It will be up to us to prepare for the Night of the Child, to prepare the way of the Lord, to make straight the paths. It will be up to us to make a journey of sorts toward Bethlehem, to spend some time listening to the story as it weaves its way through Advent. We are the ones who must make room in our hearts for the story to speak, who must listen carefully to its twists and its turns, listening for the places where it begins to tell us our own story."

-Ruth Haley Barton-

According to the church calendar, yesterday began the waiting period. Advent. The coming. It is our glimpse of the 400 years of silence that the Israelites experienced. Waiting. Watching.

I forgot.
It was the first Sabbath of Advent, my favorite time of the year. And I forgot.

My sweet husband let me sleep in and we went to church an hour later than normal. I was in a hurry to get ready and get everyone else ready. And I loved church yesterday. But no one reminded me that it was the first Sunday of Advent. We ate lunch and I napped and we did our Sunday things. And Daniel didn't remind me. My dad didn't call and tell me.

No one reminded me to begin the waiting.
Silence.

And, this morning was the strong reminder that I have spent so much of my life waiting to be reminded by others. Waiting to be led into the seasons and the waves and the journey of life. Waiting to be reminded what to think and feel and hear.

Year after year I wait for Advent. And when it finally comes, so often I miss it. Some years I start strong. Some years I don't remember until December. Some years I forget until I go to a Christmas Eve service and realize my heart is nowhere ready for all that candles and Silent Night have to offer.

Sometimes for me waiting is replaced by complaining. Complaining that my church doesn't prepare me for advent. Complaining about lines and busy and bustle. Complaining about consumerism. And before I realize it, I am celebrating a season of complaining instead of a season of waiting.

Ruth Haley Barton was a strong reminder this morning: It is up to me. It is not the responsibility of my church or my family or the government or anyone to prepare me for the Night of the Child. It is my job to find the quiet moments of waiting. It is my job to search the path for Bethlehem. It is my job to find how the story of the Holy and my own story weave together in so many ways.

In the quiet of the morning, I hear the invitation to the waiting. I hear the encouragement of my friend Rebecca who preached at our church yesterday, to boldly approach the throne of a baby wrapped in rescue and glory. I hear the giggles of two precious boys as they wait for a starlight on a house in my parents neighborhood. I hear the lady at the table next to me talking about making her meatballs early this year so that they will be softer--and she will have more time with those dear to her when the celebrations come. I hear the whisper of the Holy, that my waiting is not in vain. I hear the gentle voice that brings comfort and hope that it is not finished. That He will come.

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