I close my computer with a snap. My inbox is full of deals and manufactured delights. Ads assail me at every turn, and “influencers” flood my feeds with their lists of favorites and affiliate links. I raise my head for the first time in hours, and the room sways momentarily. As my eyes adjust, they fall on plastic bins of all shapes and sizes stacked against the walls. Most have been emptied in the frenzy that is my husband’s attempt to recreate his over-the-top childhood Christmas.
Every year, I wonder if the debate over tree size and the few unused decorations I’ve left sitting in tissue paper, will require a counseling session. In 23 years of marriage, we’ve yet to book one. This year, in a moment of weakness, I tell him to put whatever ding-dong lights he wants on the tree. I’m too tired to argue about the merits of pure white, and like Houdini, he produces a long string of lights with multi-colored settings.
I silently sip my tea while he changes the colors from an app on his phone. I hate them, I say to no one in particular. He smirks and hits the blinking function. I am assailed on all sides by excess. This is Christmas.
The day after we decorate the house, I pull a few Advent favorites off my bookshelf, and I stack them at my feet directly in front of my cozy corner of the sofa. The tree blinks as I peel open the book covers and search for words to replace the chaos of Christmas that tugs at the hem of my soul.
I decide on scripture and poetry, the salve of seekers and doubters and mystery-lovers across the centuries. With sacred words, I try to wrestle myself into hope. Like my husband, the fairy-light Houdini, I want to conjure the hope of this first week of Advent into being, where it will shimmer and twinkle and blink at me. But, I don’t feel it.
I remind myself hope is not a feeling. It is a truth embodied in the person of Christ. The Desired One has already come, and the world is, at present, being renewed and restored. It is safe to sit with the darkness because I have already seen this great Light.
While the tree flickers in the background, I tilt my head to observe the star at the very top. I decide this will be the physical symbol I will return to over the coming weeks when the tug of unmet expectations or consumerism or overwhelm threaten my heart. The star is a guide for those of us who fumble in the dark. It leads me to hope in the enfleshed form of the divine, Emmanuel, made human.
