The night had "hope" written all over it. Anita and I had been married, eh, just over a year, and our hearts were full of hope for all the years of our life together still to come. We settled into bed for the night. Our hearts were full of hope for what God might do in our years of ministry that were still to come, and when we went to sleep that night, I knew I'd be preaching the next day. I was still a pastor at the time. It was Saturday night. I had a sermon on my mind, and I awoke with a startle about 11:30. Anita was stirring me to share the news: her water had broken. All the months of training, the Lamaze classes, the anticipation, the coaching, the prayers, it was all coming into reality. This was the night, the night with "hope" written all over it.
So we rushed to the hospital, Tanner Medical Center in Carrollton, Georgia. She was admitted into Labor and Delivery. We called our family members. Her parents headed out to meet us. For the next six hours, we shared a night of hope. I leaned over Anita encouraging her, trying to keep her mind off the pain, leaning over to remind her of the breathing the classes had taught me. Her kind words to me, "Your breath really stinks, Alan," were just the first in a number of very kind things she said to me between midnight and 6:00 AM. The most memorable was when I asked, "Does it hurt, honey?" Not a good question.
At about 6:30 in the morning, Sarah Anne, our firstborn, arrived. As the doctor wrapped her in a blanket and he placed her on Anita's belly for a moment, she and I sat there and the only word I can describe it with is "hope." There she was, a real-live person, and she was our responsibility. There was no turning back now. We had great hope, hope of what God would do in the life of little Sarah Anne in the years to come. Hope for her schooling. Hope for her salvation. Hope for her growth and dreams and joys. Hopes for her future spouse. Hope for grandchildren. All that hope rolled up into one. About that time, Anita's mom flung open the door to the room, swooped in, scooped Sarah Anne up in her arms, and I'll always remember the look on her face as she held little Sarah Anne for the first time and said, "I have been waiting all my life to be a grandmother." Hope was written all over her face. Hope was written all over that night and that early morning.
Every Advent starts, not with a baby shower for a pregnant Mary, not with Joseph the carpenter assembling a crib, but with Jesus telling us business as usual is coming to an end.
But this apocalyptic Jesus, who talks of judgment and the end of life as we know it . . . ? We’re not so sure.
For one thing, his timing seems way off. “Therefore you also must be ready,” he says, “for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour.” He sounds so certain. And, well, the longer we wait, the less we may be expecting his return.
One way Christians have tended to resolve the awkwardness of what seems like a delay is to come to Jesus’ defense and say: what he really means is that Christ comes among us in unexpected ways, at unexpected times, now. Get ready, because you never know when Jesus will show up, as Mother Teresa called it, “in his most distressing disguise.” She knew when she and the sisters of her community served lepers, the poor, the outcast, they were really serving Christ. And we can too. This is true. Like my Sonshine friend Deb who was bringing vouchers to staff members to buy groceries and gifts for their children. Or when I was asked to carve the turkey for a neighbor whose spouse had died a year ago. We can recognize and serve the Christ who comes to meet us in the person in need. Jesus himself said so.
Lord, I pray for all my Sonshine Friends and pray: Come Lord Jesus and let the light of your love lift the darkness from our hearts and make us instruments of your peace.
