Two Advents

I did not grow up in a liturgical church, so it wasn't until my adult life that I even knew what Advent was. This period of waiting and anticipation before Christmas is my favorite season. The gentle songs of Advent stand in counterpoint to "Jingle Bells" and even "Joy to the World". The slow work up to Christmas makes the happy time even happier when it finally arrives—first the Advent wreath and Mary and Joseph making their way around the room to the stable, St. Nicholas Day, then a few decorations, and finally the tree. I love Advent. And two Advents particularly stand out in my mind.

The first happened over a decade ago. I had just been licensed as a foster parent and anxiously awaited news of my first placement. Time went by and finally at the beginning of December, I got the phone call. A father had fatally injured his two year old and was in jail. Social Services was worried about the safety of his baby if he made bail and wanted to place her in a different county, with me. As December progressed, I waited. I cleaned for the baby I was waiting for. I rearranged furniture to make room for the baby. I anchored bookshelves to the wall for the baby. It seemed like a particularly holy time with every action done in preparation for the child. Every counter I wiped seemed meaningful. Finally, the week before Christmas, it became apparent that the father would not make bail and the baby remained in her home county. Though I was disappointed, it had still been a holy time, a time of sacramental work and preparation. And so I was ready when the phone call finally came on January 6th, with my baby, the one I had wanted all the time, Elizabeth.

The second is this Advent, for a very different reason. My friend Ed is dying. Ed is a rock in our church community, the one we call when the basement floods, the dishwasher stops, and the New Fire of Easter needs to be lit. He built the wooden font his daughter and mine were baptized in. He built the bier, that, if his family chooses burial, his casket will rest upon. He has also saved my family on many occasions. When the dryer died, I asked him to recommend a brand. "Hmm," he mused. "I think I might have one in the basement." He did, and a

washer later followed, also from the magic basement. When I wrecked my car, he provided a loaner, though I don't think that came from the basement. Everyone I know has home repairs done by Ed. He has fought cancer for three years and remained strong and hearty through most of it. But in the last week he has gone downhill quickly. We've finally found the one thing Ed can't fix.

I went out today to say goodbye to my old friend. People came and went; his mother-in-law put cut oranges on the table, while Ed sat there, fragile and almost translucent. His wife gently stroked his head and his eyes seemed to look past us to something we couldn't see, only occasionally coming back to rest on someone. Friends called and were put on speaker phone as they told Ed that they loved him and what they'd miss about him. I saw a friend I see too seldom there; I saw another that I've lost and missed. Time hardly seemed to pass, and mundane details seemed jolting and out of place.

Ed doesn't want to die. No one wants Ed to die and we will miss him horribly. But I felt some measure of peace today at the rightness of the time and place. No more frantic emergency room visits. No more fighting with insurance companies over basic treatment. He was in the beautiful home that he built, surrounded by people who loved him, and dogs wandering in and out of the room. The peace and love were so palpable that one could almost reach out and scoop them up. And the waiting: I felt perfectly content to be in that moment with no need or hope for the future. Today I realized that the waiting isn't what we go through to get there; it's where we are and can be a holy place if we let it.

And so we wait. This Advent we wait for the Christ to be born and we wait for our friend Ed to die. The grief will come later; right now we wait in love, our thoughts and prayers and memories wrapped around Ed and his family. Right now we still have Ed and I am content to wait.