If I understand Advent correctly, it is, at its core, about waiting. It’s this cool merger of remembering the time when the world waited excitedly for a Messiah and embracing the right-now-waiting for that Messiah’s second coming. We’re reminded that today could be our Christmas Eve.
I find that the hardest people to buy presents for are the people who never have to wait. Like my parents or Justin’s parents or my sister-in-law and her husband. When they need something, they buy it. When they want something, they buy it. And I guess I’m not much different.
But London is—London cannot buy everything her heart desires, and so, for her, Christmas presents are magical. She touches her stocking three or four times a day. “My sock,” she says. She’s discovered all of my hiding places for her presents. She drags them to me in their packaging, “Ope. Ope.” Last night she pointed to the top of the bookshelf (a hiding place she can’t get into) and said, “My Christmas.”
London is giddy with expectation.
I’m finding that in watching London wait I’m, maybe for the first time in a long time, experiencing the full impact of Advent. I’m seeing what it looks like to want something so badly that you’ll climb furniture or sneak into forbidden places or cry to get it.
I want to want Christ that much. I want to cry and throw little fits and giggle uncontrollably when I imagine how happy I’ll be when He returns. I want to crave that moment like London craves the bag of plastic dogs she’s getting for Christmas.
Seems reasonable enough.