wait and see
In the black stillness of morning, I groan, thrusting my toes out into the cold that has settled on the room. I have no choice but to get up, so I throw off the covers and slide out of bed, meandering around the Christmas tree to feel for the plug. Let there be light. I gaze a moment at all that twinkling warmth, that light casting out darkness, and catch a glimpse of the coming of God. I smile, letting the advent matter, letting it wake up my soul, and then I straighten up toward Kevin and begin to hum a few bars of O Christmas Tree.
He grins, sloughing off the last invisible threads of sleep, and then salutes. And so begins another December day as we hike our way toward Christmas.
The first thing I must do today while the coffee brews (priorities, yes) is move our elf-on-the-shelf. Yesterday, I left Noelle peering expectantly into the basket where grows the completed pile of Christmas cards we’ll soon ferry off to the post office. She might need a change of clothes. She definitely needs a new shtick. I take to the stairs, considering the possibilities. Our elf tends toward curiosity more than mischief, mostly because I don’t have time to be that creative. She swings from ribbons, plays in our stockings, hides and watches us, that sort of thing. I move her with joy, because Riley anticipates Noelle’s movement more than just about any other part of Christmas.
In fact, each year during the two weeks in November, Riley eagerly awaits Noelle’s December 1st arrival, or advent. Oh, that party is on the day Noelle comes. Oh, look, we get to go do that two days after Noelle gets here. Oh, Mom, I wonder what Noelle will be doing while we’re…. Although Riley and I have talked about how Noelle moves, laughing together about how it’s a bit of fun between us, in this one annual thing, my ultra-literal daughter chooses to pretend. She pretends so well, in fact, that she convinces other people she wholeheartedly believes in Noelle’s magical, secret shenanigans.
Today, I tie Noelle’s arm by a ribbon to the wide length of gauzy ribbon where we display our received Christmas cards, the arrival of which Riley also anticipates and celebrates. She will like the idea that Noelle and her reindeer Tinsel couldn’t wait to check out the cards and loved them so well as to decide to play among the ribbons. She will stand at the door of my office and proclaim the good news, “Mom, guess what?! I found Noelle playing where the Christmas cards are!” And if, absorbed in some captivating verse, I fail to respond, she will repeat the announcement until I answer her with appropriate enthusiasm. Then, she’ll travel to the furthest rooms in the house, poised to tell every living soul within reach exactly where she found the elf. She will text about it on the way to school, her golden head bent intently over her phone, and turn down the volume while I’m singing joy, unspeakable joy at the top of my lungs and off-key to say, “I wonder where Noelle will be when I get home?!” And I will smile and say, “Well, we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”
Wait and see. Expect. Watch. This is Advent. Advent not only reminds me to celebrate the first coming of Christ, it compels me to wait and see. I ask to see the glorious activity of my King in thousands of every day moments. I wait expectantly for His return, though not, I’m thinking now, as I draw the ribbon around Noelle’s arm into a tiny bow, with quite the same alertness and anticipation as Riley displays for Noelle. What if not only in December but every day of the year I woke up eagerly anticipating the movement of God? Where will I notice Him today? What will He do? And what if, when I find Him, I cannot wait to tell every single living soul where I’ve seen Him today? What if I finished one telling only to wonder what testimony I will discover next? Such an anticipation of advent produces unfathomable joy and an expectancy for daily living that overwhelms mediocrity. I’ve seen it, live and in person, and yes, I want that.
I stand back and smile, letting Advent matter, sufficiently pleased with the curls of ribbon falling in waterfall fashion around Noelle’s red felt body. She looks like a trapeze artist swinging on a great, high rope. And the way Riley anticipates this, the way she walks around eagerly sharing her joy with words, it’s a twinkling warmth that casts out the darkness of a time when autism was all iron bars. The Light shines, a testimony to the coming of Christ, and the darkness has not overcome it (John 1:5).
So I sit back now, steaming mug in hand, and when Riley says, “Mom Jones, guess what?! I think, God is good. God is here.
