Usually Advent comes easy.

Usually, with the first chords of the first hymn on the first Sunday, my heart swells with joy, and can’t wait to worship Him.  Can’t wait to ponder, to wonder again, at the Babe in the manger.

But something was missing this year.  Something was wrong.  I read the words.  I sang the songs.  The calendar flipped, but there wasn’t the usual spark at the sight of it.  This isn’t about “Christmas spirit”, I knew.  Something is missing in my worship.

Now, it’s December 2^nd.  A cold Washington morning.  I bend down to start a fire in our trusty fireplace, to warm our home, to warm our hearts.  Why won’t it light?  I try and try again.  But each time the flame starts, it dies quickly.  Old newspaper fails.  Used paper bags fail.  Our normally quick-to-burn wood fails.

Exasperated, I sit back in front of the fireplace.  And I finally see it.  In my haste to warm the house, to just get the fire going, I forgot to sweep out yesterday’s ashes.  They are piled up back there.  Every time a flame does start, the old ashes are quick to smother it.  The flame has nowhere to go.

Now I see.  I pull out the logs and go for the trash can and the broom.  As I sweep dirty, blackened ash out of the fireplace, I pray, is this what You need to do in my heart, Lord?

I see a pile of ash in the trashcan.  I see my fingers, black with soot.  I see my heart, the things that have built up, unnoticed.  Pride.  Worry.  Fear.  Control.

They choke out the flame, like ashes.  They smother it, cover it, till it has nowhere to go.

Oh, Lord.  Do this hard work in me.  Come in and sweep through every room.  Rescue me, again.  Forgive me, again.  Make my heart a wide-open room, ready for You, again.

I start the fire, and it lights.  It catches.  I watch the flame burn slow, and remember an old song sung around a table at high school youth group.  (What happened to all those old, good songs, anyway?)  Create in me a clean heart, Oh God, and renew a right spirit within me.

Yes, that’s it.  Create in me a clean heart, Lord.

Today, it’s December 4^th.  I hear the first strands of “What Child is This?”  And the tears come easy, the wonder comes easy.  I don’t have to force Advent… it is here.

And nothing else matters but this Babe-in-a-Manger story, this God-Came-Down story, this Cradle-to-Grave story.  Nothing else matters but the One who reached down into our blackest soot so He could lift us up, so He could rescue you, and me, and our children, and their children, and on and on and on.  Nothing else matters but Him.

I stir the fire.  Place more kindling beneath it.  Add another log on top.  Is this how it is, Lord?  Must You always tend me?  Are You ever-watching, ever-knowing just what we need?  I watch the slow-burning flame and think, yes, it is like my heart, always needing care.  A slow, steady burn, in capable hands, warming this life, warming this home.

May the Sweeper of ashes, the Trader of beauty for ashes, the Tender of hearts, light up your hearts and your homes this season.

 

In Him,

Laura