Waiting For Advent

It’s almost here and once again, I’m behind the curve. 

Advent. 

I didn’t grow up hearing that word let alone, knowing what it meant.My family was never introduced to the customs of Advent. We didn’t light candles on a wreath at the dinner table or even open doors on a children’s calendar to reveal treats. I grew up in the late 50’s and 60’s when families of post-World War 2 veterans enjoyed new suburbs sparkling with Christmas lights and department store windows were filled with America’s newest must-haves. The war was a memory, the boys were back and all seemed right with the world. 

In our house, in the days preceding Christmas, music felt constant.  A large cherry cabinet sat in the corner of our paneled family room. It was a modern hi-fi record player. Inside sat the turn table and a stack of albums perched to drop. The front speaker, clad in burlap and wire mesh, hummed out carols from albums we purchased yearly at the Firestone tire center. I still have them. Bing Crosby, Perry Como and Andy Williams were the men who dominated that prized hi-fi. And the man who was the star of Christmas was, without question, Santa Claus.

Jesus waited patiently.

He still does.

It wasn’t until I was an adult that I fully entered into the church world. It was then I learned of Advent. The weeks preceding Christmas when we who call him Savior try to still the voice of commercialism and focus on the one true gift. Since then, every year, I realize that I haven’t come up with a plan on how to make the Advent season more meaningful. Do I quickly look for ideas on the internet? Should I go buy a wreath and candles? And where are those purple ones for the last week? Would it be okay to substitute colors that fit my decor or would that seem irreverent? Do I buy a calendar and fill it with treats for my husband who wants to keep his weight down? And what does chocolate candy have to do with the Christ child?

I’m telling myself to calm down. I don’t need to panic or feel as if I’ll miss the meaning. I’ve changed a bit since the 60’s and I’ve given my heart over to Jesus. I understand the true meaning, although it’s still hard to focus sometimes. I’ll always enjoy the other things associated with the season and I’ll take part in most of them, but I hope to always center myself where it matters. The traditions passed down are numerous, but reading the Bible and spending time thinking about it outweigh everything else. 

So, that’s my plan for Advent. I’ll bring my coffee mug and worn-out bible to my favorite chair each morning. I might put on some quiet music and if I have it all together, I may even light a candle.

Jesus waits patiently.

He still does.

The Christmas Duck Box

"You just wrapped your own present."

     I was always duped. As were my brothers. A box would slide across the floor and we'd begin wrapping not even knowing the contents. My mom always bought so many Christmas presents, we'd spend several evenings in our large family room wrapping. Paper, ribbon, tape and scissors slid from one corner to the next as we each did our part to help. Ready made bows weren't around then, so we made our own winding circles of ribbon, cutting, tying and pulling loops this way and that. Mom's were pretty. Ours, comical. The fireplace would crackle while Andy Williams crooned on the console TV.

     When I was a teenager, I did a little better in the wrapping department. I remember one year, for my dad's birthday, I decided to wrap the box top so it could be reused. This, of course, was long before recycling was considered. I don't know why, but the paper I chose was a blue windowpane print with ducks on it. Probably what we had on hand.

     "How clever!" Mom said. "We can use this again." And we did. Every Christmas.

     Sometime after 1985, the Duck Box resurfaced. Of course, Mom put Christmas paper over it and sent it to my house. Not to be outsmarted, I returned it the following Christmas. That began the "Duck Box" tradition. You never knew when it would appear since it was a standard size - like a dress shirt box. Some years, it held unexciting things like under ware, but other years, it contained the big present. The one you never expected and loved the best.

     As the years progressed, the Duck Box took on personality. We couldn't be happy with plain old ducks. Mom got out markers and added festive Santa hats and holly. The next year, I put on sunglass stickers. Mom decided they needed polish on their web toes. One even laid a golden egg. And we didn't stop with the cover. Inside was tissue paper - with Christmas mail stickers, return address labels from our different houses, the original yellowed wrinkled tissue and a few styrofoam packing peanuts thrown in for good measure. At some point, on the back of the box, we began marking the years with our initials. Somehow, we always remembered who had The Duck Box. I loved it.

     The Duck Box is gone now. It made it's last trip over 3 years ago. It was my turn to send it to Mom. If I could have wrapped up a cure for cancer, it would have been the best gift ever hidden inside that tissue. Somehow, I knew I'd never see it again, so I carefully clicked pictures. I guess I knew that there would come a time when I'd tell a story about a silly old box full of love. Yep - I just wrapped my own present, Mom. Thanks for the memories.