Waiting in Joyful Hope; a Mother's Advent Reflections

Happy Pink-candle week of Advent! As someone who enjoys bringing more pinkness into the world (obviously this was my ulterior motive in giving birth to five girls), Gaudete Sunday is one of my favorite days of the year. For the rest of Advent, every time I light the pink candle, I smile I secret smile and think, "Ha! Not just for girly girls."

With the approach of Christmas, my writing time has been hijacked by sewing- and painting- and lettering- and various-other-creating-things-time. So I apologize for raiding my Google Drive files and bringing you some very old content. I wrote it years ago and never published it; hopefully some of you might find it relevant now!

(N.B. I'm not pregnant at the moment. Again, it's an old article. :)

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They call it “nesting”: these last few weeks of pregnancy, when my hands are busy with readying rooms and clicking out baby socks on my knitting needles. When through the thousand other thoughts parading across my brain, there still comes a bagpipe-like drone: baby, baby, baby, soon, soon, wait, wait. Wait.

I’m longing for the moment I can hold in my arms this little one who’s been nestled in my belly (and kicking against my ribs) for so many months. But I’ve had some practice in waiting. I’m Catholic.

I’ve always loved the Church’s special reverence for the seasons of waiting, of in-between. I have a particular fondness for Advent, with its four weeks of preparing for Christ’s coming: as a little child—as our redeemer—into our hearts—and on the last day. Four weeks to celebrate the waiting.

We light candles, week by week seeing the glow from the fragrant evergreen wreath brighten and grow. (I feel my baby’s head lower, notice the increase of strength in his or her little limbs as they press against me, within me.) We remember the longing of generations as we read the Old Testament stories, sing the antiphons, hang symbols on the Jesse tree to remind us of how they yearned. (I look back on the last eight months of pregnancy, remembering first kicks and hiccups with little notes, humming to myself as I hang freshly-cleaned newborn clothes.)

Advent is filled, too, with reminders of why we must wait: we must prepare. We need to consider, and reflect. Am I ready for Christ’s coming? (Am I ready to meet a newborn’s needs?) Are my thoughts set on God, on accepting His will? (Am I holding onto any selfish desires that will keep me from being the mother I should be?) But these reflections are always surrounded with hope, with the joy of anticipation. On Gaudete Sunday, my family pulls a freshly-cut fir tree into our living room, decorating it throughout the week as we spend the rest of our time baking cookies, or tucked away in our rooms making secret Christmas presents. We set up the Creche, with its empty manger waiting patiently for the Christ Child to be set inside it on Christmas Eve.

I’m not always so patient, waiting for this baby. I grumble, like the Israelites in the desert, forgetting the blessing of what I have been given to focus on the swelling ankles and the achy back. I grow tired of wondering when the day will come, of watching how slowly the hour hands circle the clock.

Another mother, however, gives me the example I need. Who better than Mary, growing up as one of the Chosen People, awaiting the Messiah her entire life only to await Him more particularly for nine joyful months, could understand the eager impatience of an expectant mother?

Mary’s reaction was not to grumble, but to sing. Her faith reminds me that Emmanuel, God with us, was physically present in the world for months before the angels proclaimed His birth to the shepherds. My own baby, hidden from the world in my bulging belly, reminds me that God is with me, too, often hidden but always there, present and honored through all our seasons of waiting.

So with the baby socks finished and ready, I tuck my swollen feet into my own soft socks (once I manage to actually reach my toes around this giant belly), light the leftover stubs of last year’s pink and purple candles, and sing with Mary her song of joyful waiting: “My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord!”