Readying the Wait

So, on the way out of Minneapolis Friday -- "Black Friday" -- we made a quick stop by the "Mega-Mall" -- the Taj Mahal of merchandise, the St. Peter's of purchasing. Of course, a "quick trip" to the Mall of America on Black Friday is relative. It took us awhile to park, finally sliding into a berth on the seventh floor of the west parking ramp -- not to be confused, of course, with the north or south or east or "remote" ramps (again, "remote" being a relative term, essentially meaning "still within the state of Minnesota"). We were only headed to one store, in search of one thing, so apart from threading our way through the throngs and dodging clerks carrying boxes stacked too high to see over, it was a fairly simple excursion.

Arriving home a few hours and several dozen Christmas tunes later and, among other obligations, dragging out boxes of decorations and accomplishing a few more shopping errands, the lights are now strung, the tree is up, the knick knacks of the season are finding their way around the house and the Christmas letter is conceived, if not quite composed. I can't quite say that the "stockings are hung by the chimney with care," but by nightfall it all should be accomplished.

Then what?

Then, I suppose -- as the season of Advent suggests -- we wait. Wait, to be sure, but perhaps more accurately we watch...for glimpses of the holy we might happen to see. Unlike previous years our calendars anticipate a season reasonably paced, with an appealing handful of holiday events -- a party here, some concerts there -- seasoning a surprising number of quieter, breathable days.

The iPod holiday playlists are ready with a mix of quiet, boisterous, new, traditional, and even a handful of funny songs. The lights are twinkling. The temperatures are dropping. Scents of cinnamon and cider and nutmegged nog and evergreen are wafting. And the Story is beginning to evoke again deeper hopes; more poignant longings.

Who knows, then, what we may see in the coming days; and hear?

Perhaps the Brush of Angel Wings

It's the weekend before Christmas and all through the house not a preacher is panicking, not even...
...me. Having wakened early, I plugged in the Christmas tree lights, turned on the coffee, fed Barrington, and knocked out the last of the special bulletins. The sermon for Sunday is almost in hand, the Christmas Eve candles have been prepared by a loving volunteer, and the nativity scene -- the one my in-laws molded and painted and built some years ago -- is reassembled, and so far no mischievous hands have absconded with the baby Jesus.

It not only is quiet; it actually feels quiet for a change. And more snow is predicted tonight and tomorrow. Perfect! Not that everything is done. There is still a gift or two to buy, and there is the wrapping still ahead. We need to find something to do with all these cookies and candies we made earlier in the week, and there are a few returned cards for which we need to find new addresses. There is a meal to plan and groceries to buy.

But those aren't really "tasks" at all; they are the very candle flames of Advent. All of it is, actually -- even preparing all those bulletins and scripts. Getting ready. Making preparations. Putting life in order for the day -- for the One -- who is to come.

Make your house fair as you are able,
trim the hearth and set the table.
People, look east and sing today:
Love, the Guest, is on the way.

And so while much, if not most, is accomplished, I'm still getting ready. There is silence to embrace and prayers to attend; there are dreams to revisit and hopes to embrace; there are eyes to look more deeply into, and if I turn my ear just right...

...an angel's song to hear.

"Glory."
"On earth."
"Peace."