Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

christmas

The watching and the waiting

I leave the house with time to spare, but that doesn’t stop me from anxiously refreshing the app on my phone that lets me know when the bus might arrive at my stop. The walk from my house to the bus stop is short, but I can’t help the constant checking. Until I am standing at the stop, I am sure that I will miss the bus’s arrival. (There was the one time I was running and caught it as it turned the corner, between two stops. I would not repeat that moment.)

The monitoring often begins when I first wake up in the morning. I usually have the option of taking one of several buses at varying times of the morning, and the times don’t change from week to week. Still, I’m checking and double-checking to figure out what time works best for my schedule.

The app, while helpful, is not always accurate. There have been times I’ve arrived at the stop, thinking I had five minutes or more to wait and the bus comes roaring around the bend a minute or two later. I’m not upset when the bus is early, although when the margin shrinks to minutes, I worry for the next time. What if the bus is early? What if I’m running late?

I worry, too, sometimes that the bus driver won’t see me standing there at the side of the road. If the lights that indicate the bus is stopping don’t flash soon enough, then I wave my hand to draw attention to myself. If the children are standing with me, my son waves his arms wildly to get the bus driver’s attention.

But the driver is trained to see. To watch for the waiting people. I notice this as we travel the route. From their position at the front of the bus, elevated above regular car and truck traffic, they can see from afar the people who might be waiting to catch the bus. They know where to look, when to slow down.

I’m watching, too, as the bus travels its path. I wait for the familiar buildings to come into view, then I pull the yellow cord to let the driver know I want to get off the bus. They pull over, open the doors, and my journey is complete–for now.

Photo by Matteo Bernardis on Unsplash

—

Before I started riding the bus regularly, I paid little to no attention to the buses around the city and the county. Maybe I would see them and maybe I would be annoyed when they stopped in front of me and I had to figure out how to get around them.

Now, though, I can imagine the people on the bus. I know to hang out in the left lane if there’s a bus ahead of me on the road because they travel in the right lane as much as possible. I recognize the signal that means they are about to stop. I can guess how long it takes for the waiting person to board and pay fare and be seated. I read the route numbers and the destinations. Sometimes I’ll point out “our” bus to the kids when we are traveling the same route. I have yet to learn any of the bus driver’s names. Maybe someday.

I see, too, the people waiting for the bus. I know they are waiting because I know the waiting. I see them sitting–grouped yet separate–sometimes sheltered from the cold, sometimes in the open air. Sometimes they stand by the side of the road. Or lean against a post. Maybe they sit in the grass or clasp the hand of a child.

Sometimes I pass the person waiting and farther up the road, I pass the bus, on its way to the next stop, and I smile.

It’s coming, I whisper. The wait is almost over and I can feel the relief.

—

It is Advent now, a season it seems I am still learning to celebrate. It is not enough for me that it is a countdown to Christmas. It is a season rich with meaning on its own.

When I think of Advent, I think of the waiting. Advent feels a bit like showing up at the bus stop at the appointed time, like knowing something is coming around the bend, even if I can’t see it, even if I can’t be certain. It is sometimes like noticing fellow travelers by the side of the road, then seeing the bus coming in the distance, and announcing the good news: It’s coming.

Sometimes the “it” is not as obvious as the bus, though.

Christmas is coming. Jesus has come. He is coming again.

These are the things I know about this season yet I’m still unsure what it is I’m waiting for.

At a retreat a couple of weekends ago, I was asked to ponder what it was I wanted Advent to be and, conversely, what I didn’t want it to be. It had not occurred to me that I could choose a rhythm, a goal, for this season. The time between Thanksgiving and Christmas always feels full of obligation and, at the same time, lacking. Not enough time. Not enough money. Not enough of me to go around.

So I knew almost without thinking that I wanted this Advent to be about intention and purpose and not about what other people wanted. Saying those things out loud gave me strength. I could choose.

During our solitude time, we were invited to ponder an image, a phrase or a word that would represent our longings for Advent. I sat near the water–a large creek or a small river, I’m not sure–and wondered if that was my illustration. I am a glutton for water. If there is a body of it nearby, I have to see it up close, though I seldom get in it.

I read a Psalm and the words settled on me.

You open wide your hand …

I thought about the feelings I had of not enough and how an open hand says the opposite.

An open hand …

invites,
gives,
releases,
receives,
accepts,
allows.

It is not a natural act. It requires intention.

Since then I’ve been trying to keep that image of open hands at the forefront. I’ve read the words more than once and been challenged to sit, literally, with palms open.

—

“What are you waiting for?”

A devotional writer asked this while posing this posture of open palms.

I don’t know if I know what I’m waiting for. A phrase from the retreat keeps running through my mind: Advent is a time when we wait for what we’ve already been given. Maybe that’s what I’m waiting for–what I already have.

I could easily forget to keep my hands open. I could easily forget to wait. So, I’m going to have to do the hard work of remembering. This tree makes it a little bit easier. It is a gift, the result of an unexpected kindness. God opened his hand and so have other people.

I want to live like that, too.

Watching. Waiting. With open hands.

Some thoughts about Paris, Christmas and the world

When the brutal attacks happened in Paris a few weeks ago, I had a lot I wanted to say. I love Paris. I spent most of my high school years dreaming about it as I learned to speak French. Then, when I was 20, I had the opportunity of a lifetime to spend a semester studying in England. One of the scheduled long weekends offered during the term was a trip by Chunnel to Paris. It literally was a dream come true and the friends I traveled with can attest to how annoying I was when I pointed out the Eiffel Tower from every corner of the city.

My heart broke when the news did. And I watched as the world mourned with the city of lights, standing in solidarity with its “beautiful” people. A day earlier, bombs had exploded in Beirut, and I wanted to make sense of the widespread compassion for one city and virtual ignorance of another. I’ve been mulling the words and the questions for weeks, and thanks to the Internet, I know I’m not the only one thinking them. I do not like to stir up controversy for its own sake, and I still think we need to ask ourselves why it is easier for us to mourn with Paris than it is Beirut or Syria or any other place that is regularly marked by war. One friend suggested that maybe it is because we can see ourselves there more easily. We can imagine ourselves at a club or a concert or shopping mall and having terror invade those spaces. We cannot picture ourselves in a world where violence and terror are normal, everyday things.

So I was going to write an entire blog post about all of that, challenging us to care about people who we might not consider “beautiful” and to mourn with places we do not think of as “enchanting.” (I love what Annie Rim has done with this challenge for Advent. Check out her daily Advent prayers for the hard situations in the world starting here with day one.)

But a lot has been said about Paris. And the world seems darker by the day. I do not want to add to the darkness. Nor do I want to deny that it exists.

What do we do, I wondered, when the darkness seems to be winning?

—

We stood in the city square surrounded by hundreds of people next to an unlit Christmas tree. The weather was mild for almost-December, more than 50 degrees, no rain or snow or wind. We pressed close to the stage where the holiday festivities would begin. Although I’m an introvert and often prefer to stay home, there is something about a gathering of people kicking off the Christmas holiday that draws me to it. Yes, there is the downtown parking and the crowd of people, but there’s also a spirit of cheerfulness, hot cider and this year, we discovered, some amazing hand-held sweet waffles from a local bakery.

There’s also Santa on a fire truck and music. We were close enough to the stage this year to actually see the performance that preceded the tree lighting–a musical performance of silliness and song featuring elves, obscure Claus relatives, Jack Frost and dancing snowmen. It was like Elf meets The Santa Clause meets Frozen.

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It was ridiculously wonderful. We danced and sang along, participating in the celebration of a season that is special for so many reasons.

And then the group performing surprised me. They sang two carols, the kind you would hear in church around Christmas, and as the crowd listened and sang along, the good news of Jesus’ birth spread as far as the sound system carried the words. Now, I know that lots of people sing Christmas carols and don’t pay any attention to the words or what they mean. But standing there in the square, surrounded by people, joining my voice to the chorus of “Joy to the World,” I was overcome with a sense of rightness and peace.

This is it, I thought. This is what you do when the darkness seems to be winning. You stand in the city square and with a crowd of people you declare with one voice that there is still joy in the world. Not because of dancing snowmen or Santa or tasty waffles or pleasant weather, though it is okay to acknowledge those as good things.

There is joy in the world because darkness is the weaker force. As long as there is one person willing to light a candle, hold a flashlight or flip a switch, light will overcome. And if there is one person willing to hold a light in the darkness, there will be another person willing and another. One of my favorite things at Christmas is a Christmas Eve candle-lighting service, when the sanctuary goes dark and one person lights the candle they are holding and the flame passes from person to person until what was once a dark room is filled with individual glowing lights.

 

The world might seem dark, but Christmas has come at just the right time. To remind us that light overcomes darkness, that joy has come into a world that is often miserable, that hope is not as elusive as we might think.

Standing in the throng in the public square, we can say with confidence, “Joy to the world, the Lord is come.”

Sometimes I wonder if it’s right to celebrate when so many people are suffering, whether globally or within my own circle.

But then I look at the lights of Christmas set against the dark of night and I know. We need the celebration. We need the lights and the singing and the friends and the family and the getting together, not only to remind ourselves that the world is not all dark but as a public declaration to whatever darkness encroaches that we still believe the light will win.

Whatever you are feeling about the state of the world, the state of your world, can I just encourage you?

Light the tree. Light a candle. Sing a Christmas carol. Or a song that makes you feel braver than you think are. Give someone a gift they’ll love. Hug your family. Or a friend. Say “Merry Christmas.” (Or “Happy holidays” and don’t get all bent out of shape about either one.) Act kindly. Serve someone you don’t think deserves it. Donate money or time or something with value to a charity (not just now but all throughout the year). Buy someone else’s coffee when you’re standing in line for yours. Write a letter to a loved one. Make a phone call. Take a picture. Or paint one.

Whatever it means to you to push  back the darkness, do that.

Your seemingly little act of light just might be contagious.