O Come, O Come or "Yeah, yeah, patience. How long's that gonna take?"

My husband and our three wild ones enjoy a CD from Dr. Demento, (crazy, right?) which has on it a little spoken word ditty about a sensei teaching a new student how to fight. The student is ready to start "hitting people" and the sensei says the student must learn patience. The student responds "yeah, yeah, patience. How long's that gonna take?" My wild ones find this hilarious.

They sense the irony without knowing what irony is. They know that as they wait for Christmas and the promise of presents, patience is hard. Waiting sucks.

At the start of Advent, I had a plan. A glorious plan indeed. We were going to be deliberate this year. We would read our Advent readings nightly, and light the candles in our wreath and pray and think and be still. We would avoid consumerism, the holiday rush, the frenzy of parties and activities.

Trouble is, I'm not in charge of assigning homework, scheduling basketball and soccer games, friends' birthday parties, choir concerts, church and work activities. And my plan fell to scattered pieces. Christmas morning is almost here and I've barely cracked open the devotional a friend gave us. The kids, though diligent in their attentions to the Advent Calendar, still have dreams of what's under the tree. And I, I am filled with a sense of failure.
I did not stay true. I let it get away from me. I did not sit still and wait. I bowed to the almighty calendar instead of the Almighty King. That is, after all, what Advent is. Preparing our hearts to celebrate the coming King.

The truth is, I'm not all the good at waiting. I don't like it. It's not fun if I can't be in control. Usually, when I'm waiting, I want to make a decision, or a plan, or find a solution. I want to do anything to make the waiting stop. Some of you are rather adept at this whole waiting thing. I asked you via Twitter and Facebook, what you do while waiting. Your answers inspired me. Many of you read, tinker, knit, or write. Most of your answers had this delightful sense of peace about them, as if you took the waiting as part of the journey and settled in for it.

I must have missed the memo on this, because when I wait I whine, I cajole, I text, I call, I facebook, I twitter, I email, I search for new projects despite the unfinished ones. All of my answers point to a restlessness, an inability to sit still, to let if flow, to enjoy the wait. Essentially, I make the wait one big drama with me in the center. Who knew?

Which brings me back to how I failed at Advent. I'm not really talking about daily countdown, a simple ticking off of hours and minutes until the next big thing. I'm talking about the kind of waiting that takes as long as it takes and looks a lot like living life on purpose, for a purpose, with an eye to the real Next Big Thing.

Good news, though. It's not too late for me to prepare this wayward heart for Christmas morning, and all the mornings after it. It starts now, with a clearing of space in my head for what matters, and a decided shoving aside of all the stuff that doesn't. I imagine my diligence will falter; I am, after all, easily distracted by the loud alarm of life and its demands. And again I will find my way back to a quiet, waiting space.

Denuding the tree

Time to take Christmas down and put it away for another. I greet this time with less than enthusiasm.

When we put the tree up, and get out all the ornaments and the sweet little decorations we've picked up over the year, we have fun. It is exciting to watch the kids look at their little selves, to remember my own past Christmases, to recall where and when certain items came from.

It sits in the corner over the season, an object of expectation. Gifts pile up underneath, friends come and admire, the lights glitter and flicker with impatience.

Christmas morning arrives, the tree gets less attention. After the initial lighting, the tree stands alone while underneath its limbs, the kids have removed everything for them in little stacks and begin ripping into gifts.

Later that same day, the tree, once such a symbol of promise, even just yesterday, now is obsolete. Of course you can't take the tree down on Christmas day so it stands. And stands, and stands.

The next few days it is still kind of cheery but mostly an wanted guest you're not sure how to get rid of. Finally, you tell yourself you'll take it down. And still it stands. You can't quite summon the energy to take it down. You know it means cleaning, and rearranging and organizing, and really, haven't you done enough of that already?

Down it must come. After the initial complaint of motivation, you quickly get the job done. And slowly you realize you like your house normal, without the tree, without the Santas, and the red and green and the extra stuff. It looks clean, tidy, kept.

I wonder at how fickle we are.