We Hear the Angels

“Although eating honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn’t know what it was called.” I was reminded of Winnie the Pooh’s words as the lovely Madelyn Simone and I shared a conversation about Advent and Christmas. When was Christmas? Where would we go this year now that her great-grandmother has died? How can we get ready for Christmas? How many days would she have to wait?

Like Pooh had figured out, sometimes the waiting, the anticipation, is as rich an experience as the actual arrival of the honey, or of Christmas morning. I’m not sure Madelyn can understand that concept at the age of five, as it’s taken me quite a few more years to grasp it myself.

I remember well the year that the anticipation of Christmas morning overwhelmed me to the point that I could not wait any longer. I was probably about nine or ten, and I don’t know how I managed the logistics (as in, where was my mother?), but somehow I was able to stealthily climb up in the cubbyhole above the cellar stairs and search through every bag my mother had hidden away. So on Christmas morning, there was no surprise, no anticipation, and no sense of wonder. I had seen everything. My inability to wait had spoiled Christmas.

Did that ill-fated episode plant a seed in me that would later grow into a desire to protect the days of Advent in my own heart? My career choice made that more difficult than most, as in November and December the focus of a Salvation Army officer’s work is on bringing a blessed Christmas to others, often leaving little time or space for my own heart’s preparation.

Bill McKibben describes Advent as a “time to listen for footsteps,” aware that “you can’t hear footsteps when you’re running yourself.” In my desire to listen for footsteps, my own search for the fullness of Advent often drew me back to the memories of the Advent wreath, whose candles glowed in the quiet Sunday evenings of my childhood Decembers. It has also urged me to create, to compose carols, to write poetry, and to prepare daily Advent readings to share with family and friends. One of those collections, “We Hear the Angels: Ancient Prayers for Advent,” led me to individuals who prayed, sang and wrote of their own experience of anticipation over the course of the last twenty centuries.

I have been especially captured by the images they used, eager to exchange the Grinch, Scrooge, and even a right jolly old elf with a little round belly for those of the ancient poets: a clear light, a morning star, the cradle for the living Christ, Mary’s womb a bridal chamber. As I sat with the words of women and men like Hildegard of Bingen, Charles Wesley, Christina Rossetti, W.E.B. Du Bois, and Pope John XXIII, I could glimpse their faith and claim their words as my own plea.

When Frontier Press offered to publish this collection of ancient prayers of Advent, I was glad that the quiet joy I had claimed for myself in the days leading up to Christmas might be available to others. I wasn’t sure about their suggestion of a book launch here in Ashland, as I’m a writer, not a promoter, but what we’ve decided on is to gather in the shadow of the stained glass at the Kroc Center to experience the age-old prayers, art and music of Advent in worship (December 10, 7 p.m. – all welcome to attend).  

Will I be glad if a few folks buy my new book? Sure. That’s the point of a book launch. But I will be especially glad to draw together with those who gently anticipate the coming of the Light.

In the candlelit sanctuary, on a snowy, solitary walk, or in the early morning hush, we pause to listen for the footsteps of Advent. As the angels’ song echoes from the Bethlehem hills, might Advent 2015 bring us moments of holy expectancy that can be ours before we ‘taste the honey.’ Gloria!