Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love…
Where there is despair, hope.”—St. Francis of Assisi
Does anyone else absolutely cringe when people describe 2020:
“In these unprecedented times…”
“In these scary times…”
“In these unusual times…”
“In these crazy times…”
“In these strange times…”
There really isn’t an adequate adjective to describe this year. Unprecedented, scary, unusual, crazy, strange are all accurate, but also incomplete. It doesn’t encapsulate the full experience of this year.
After one of the wildest years most of us can remember, we have reached the beginning of the liturgical calendar: Advent. The word advent can be defined as an arrival. The advent of something means it is finally here. It feels like relief and a deep breath and “Ah, there you are!”
What a beautiful day it will be when we can all collectively take a deep breath in relief after the events of 2020.
The first week of Advent is traditionally about hope, but hope feels hard to come by these days. There is a lot of lament and a lot of mourning. We are all exhausted from over eight months of living through a worldwide pandemic.
What exactly are we waiting for this advent season? What are we expecting to come at the end of four weeks? Is there any hope remaining as conspiracy theories dominate our Facebook feeds, COVID-19 cases surge causing new waves of lockdowns, and our country and families feel more divided than ever after a painfully drawn-out election season? Did I use up all my hope back in March when we thought this was just an extra week of Spring Break?
We don’t know what is on the other side. We already feel normal putting a mask on before entering any business, making sure we stay far away from other people, and doing the hard work of life on our own.
I don’t have to spell out all that is lost this holiday season—in addition to hundreds of thousands of lives—we are missing boisterous gatherings and carol singing by candlelight and our favorite small town festivals. Tree lightings are quieter and you might not feel like making much merry. Vulnerable loved ones are alone in order to stay safe and the best laid plans continue to be modified and canceled.
A year ago we may have complained of bursting calendars and bustling grocery stores. It seems we may have our chance to experience a quieter, close-to-home holiday season.
Being confined to 1,100 square feet with my entire family for the foreseeable future wasn’t what I had in mind when I decided to stay home for a school year as we welcomed our second child into the world.
I dreamed of play dates and library storytimes and mornings at the Children’s Museum.
I dreamed of exploring and hands-on learning and making all the new little friends.
I dreamed of wearing the baby and chasing the toddler and wiping snotty noses in public.
I dreamed of doing this shoulder to shoulder with other mamas—all of our babies mingling.
I dreamed of saying, “Hands are not for hitting,” and “Try and share,” and “Now it's your turn!”
2020 sure turned out to crush those dreams.
I didn’t dream of everything shutting down.
I didn’t dream of social distancing or telling Declan not to hug other kids.
I didn’t dream of loneliness.
I didn’t dream of trying to explain to a toddler that the beach was closed.
I didn’t dream of doing this alone.
I didn’t dream of hazardous air quality and being trapped inside due to wildfires.
I didn’t dream of worrying my son was too friendly to strangers.
I didn’t dream of seeing these four walls quite so much.
I didn’t dream of rarely using car seats.
I didn’t dream of asking my 2-year-old to stop pulling off my mask in Grocery Outlet.
I didn’t dream of “Don’t touch that,” and “Just wave hi!” and “Let’s take your temperature before we go in.”
I didn’t dream of video chatting with my midwife for prenatal appointments.
I didn’t dream of a virtual baby shower or limited visitors after giving birth.
But Mary wasn’t exactly living the dream either on the first Christmas.
Mary didn’t dream of an unexpected pregnancy.
Mary didn’t dream of traveling 90 miles on foot or animal in her third trimester.
Mary didn’t dream of giving birth in a barn. (Talk about a birth plan fail!)
Mary didn’t dream of having to flee the country in fear for her baby boy’s life.
Mary didn’t dream of being separated from her support system in the difficult weeks and months postpartum.
Yet, there she was. And here we are.
I cried with our midwife at our 6-week postpartum visit. (Side note: Crying in a mask feels very weird.) She said she was feeling for women mothering young kids right now, that this is the work of their lives.
The mamas around you are alone and tired and, in a season that already feels physically and emotionally relentless, there is no relief in sight. We are fighting decision fatigue on top of pandemic fatigue on top of normal postpartum fatigue. There are limited ways to ask for help or let people in. The parents of young kids in your life are largely on their own. The hardest part might be not knowing when this will end. When will storytime come back? When will playdates be socially acceptable? When can we visit elderly relatives without fear? Will we always fear each other a little more now? We weren’t meant to do life alone.
My son loves when we read the book, “We’re Going on a Bear Hunt,” by Michael Rosen. There is a repeated refrain throughout the book: “We can’t go over it. We can’t go under it. We’ll have to go through it.” It is the toddler-friendly version of Winston Churchill’s advice, “If you’re going through hell, keep going.”
Even though many days feel so heavy without any end in sight, we have to look for hope in unexpected ways. We have to go through it. We have to keep going. I didn’t expect most of this year to play out the way it did, but survival insists we look beyond our own expectations.
Here we are. How will we keep going?
We grieve what is lost and we look for sparkles of hope in the meantime.
We look forward to a deep breath, but keep on going until we get there.
I find hope in the way Declan offers his trucks to his baby sister.
I find hope in the way Adam is building and growing his business.
I find hope in the way the seasons keep marching forward, nature unaffected by human struggle.
I find hope in at-home yoga workouts with virtual teachers on Youtube.
I find hope in baby baptism, connecting generations through an old spiritual ritual.
I find hope in playing Christmas music way too early.
I find hope in “coincidental” provision in the face of uncertainty.
I find hope in having civil, constructive conversations with family and friends who voted differently than me.
I find hope in baking cookies from scratch and chopping vegetables for soup (and giving up control by letting my son stir the ingredients).
I find hope in taking a long walk during a break in the rain, the cold air in my lungs reminding me I’m still alive.
As we enter this advent season, I encourage you to think about the dreams you had for the way you were “supposed” to be living right now. What dreams have had to die for you during this season?
Where are you continuing to find hope despite your broken dreams?