Friday, May 15, 2026
One December afternoon before Christmas break, when I was in elementary school, I got off the bus in shock to see our family home bedecked for the holidays. Mom was in college at the time, and they broke for the holidays earlier than we did. That particular year, since she was home, she put up all the Christmas decor as a “surprise.” I was deflated, not delighted. I didn’t want to ruin it for her, so I held my peace. Later in life, I realize that no surprise will be spoiled. No way.
I loved putting up holiday decor. That was Christmas for me—climbing into the attic and taking down the boxes of ornaments and strings of colored lights. Christmas morning is a letdown, if we’re honest. All of the magic subsides. No more wrapped gifts. However, life is more abundant than that. It’s under perpetual wraps. It always gives us the gift of anticipatory angst. Is angst a gift? I don’t know, but the surprise won’t be spoiled.
Do you live comfortably in the perpetuation of possibility? It’s always Advent—which means, to me, adventuring. Advenire, from ad- ‘to’ + venire ‘come.’ Life is always ‘to come.’ It’s perpetuity and curiosity and wonder, always.
Yes, things do come and go, seemingly. At some point, you must love uncertainty to get into the game that the Season of Eternity seems to be playing with us. Isn’t there always something to look forward to, if you understand? Life is abundantly forgiving that way—always keeping us “on our toes.” However, we seem to enjoy being on our asses. That won’t work, either.
Something is always dawning, even in death. I’m not sure if we ever get to Christmas. That’s a letdown anyway.
I like hope. I like the unspoiled surprise of eternity. That’s not angst. That’s exciting—the substance of things to come. That’s faith.