advent: turning toward the coming
Jean and I had been married a mere seven weeks when we learned of the “advent” (the coming) of our first child. Seven weeks. I was still alarmed to seeing woman’s shoes in the closet. I was still forgetting to plan with someone else in mind. Now I’m being asked to make room for another someone?
Advent might seem like a strange word to describe the coming of my firstborn. Isn’t advent a “sacred” word? Yes, but the basic definition fits. Advent derives from the Latin roots; ad meaning “to” or “toward” and venire meaning “coming.” In the sacred sense, Advent refers to the coming of the Christ Child. The Advent season asks us to prepare to “The Coming.” Will we turn toward the coming or turn away? But in the everyday sense of the word, the coming of my first child is also a type of advent.
Of course, the coming of the Christ child is vastly more significant, which is a point of stark contrast. But the way that I turn—or don’t turn—toward these comings is a point of sober comparison.
Like I said, we were newly married; I wasn’t thinking about turning toward anything other than my new marriage. And honestly I wasn’t thinking all that often or clearly about that. My thinking was more like:
So we’re married. Cool!
Of course, there will have to be adjustments, maybe a little more communication – you know – during halftimes and such.
And sure, Jean will need to learn to enjoy a wonderful person like myself, but I know she’ll do great.
Then that morning happened.
Jean came out of the bathroom in our one-bedroom apartment looking somehow… different. “I need to tell you something,” she said. Ok, I thought, probably a love note written on the mirror. Something like that. But she pointed to a little box sitting on the sink labeled “Pregnancy Test.” Inside was a test tube, with a small mirror underneath, angled so you could view the bottom of the tube. Mysterious particles lay gathered there.
“Do you know what that means?” she asked seriously.
“That you might possibly be a potential pregnancy candidate someday, off into the future?” I guessed.
“No, silly,” she said, and starting talking as if she had thought about this before. I caught a few words as they passed by: baby, due in November, tell our parents. Out of the corner of my eye, in the bathroom mirror, I saw a very bewildered face staring at me, a face that used to be mine. Suddenly, an advent—that is “a coming”—was upon me. And I was turning alright, in tight emotional spirals.
Slowly, Jean came back into focus, softly illuminated by the hallway light. She was wearing her bathrobe, the kind Mary might wear in a Christmas pageant. I can’t remember exactly what she said next, but it sounded biblical, “Roger, I am bringing you good tidings of great joy, for unto you will be born a….”
I too, responded biblically: I was sore afraid. Like Mary, I was pondering all this in my heart, saying “How can these things be, since I am a vir …” Well, ok, I wasn’t exactly like Mary, but I was definitely a rookie.
And I was truly afraid. I know this, because I did then what I do now when I am afraid. I shrink away from what’s scaring me, which is the exact opposite what advent encourages. Whenever I sense something coming that requires vulnerability to love (either giving or receiving), I become wary. Yes, I’m always scanning for love, but I’m also always scanning for loss of control. Even before the test tube, just noticing a difference in Jean activated my sensors and kickstarted evasive maneuvers.
Now, I was savvy enough to not literally turn my back on Jean (I would have fallen over the toilet). I did look at her; I remember her happy (and partly scared) face. I’m pretty sure I even hugged her. Yes, I think I mustered that much. But that brief pregnancy test began a months-long examination of my heart. Would I turn toward or away from the coming of my first child?
As the weeks progressed, sometimes I turned toward. I participated in the doctor appointments. I clumsily assembled the borrowed crib. I listened to the heartbeat in wonder. We planned and prayed and laughed. But, sometimes overwhelmed, I turned away. Sometimes when I felt excitement, I tamped it down. I kept trying to believe that this coming wouldn’t change our lives that much. I tried to believe that I wouldn’t have to change that much. If anyone even mentioned diapers, I changed the subject, hoping that I wouldn’t have to actually change the subject. I constricted my range of emotions, suppressed my hopes, and hid my fears.
Yet, as our baby relentlessly grew “the coming” became undeniable. The strengthening heartbeat. The ultrasounds. At night, he kicked me in the back as if to say, “Don’t you roll away from me!”
The whole situation was asking me to step up. Enlarge and open myself. Commit. Attach. Feel. Put skin in the game. This little person was asking me to be a big person, a person vulnerable to love. You might be thinking, So that’s what you’re really afraid of. You might even conclude that I still am.
It may seem obvious, but to receive love you have to let it touch you. You cannot turn toward love and distance yourself at the same time. Love doesn’t work that way. You have to let it in. You have to repent of a lifetime of evasive maneuvers. Quite literally, He is asking you to turn away from turning away.
Love will change you. At first, His coming will fill empty parts of you, which you might welcome. But Christ’s love is after more, he won’t settle for half-time. Like a growing newborn life born in your home, His presence infiltrates into all corners. There are no hobby-babies; there are no hobby-Saviors. A newborn’s doesn’t just alter your bedtime routine, but your 5 year-plan, and then, in increments, your whole life. You slowly realize that He is coming for keeps.
Advent asks you to step up. Enlarge and open yourself. Commit. Attach. Feel. Put your skin—all of it—into the game. That is exactly what Jesus did for you.
O Come, O Come Emmanuel.
Roger Edwards joined The Barnabas Center in 1991. He works with both individuals and couples, helping people confess their need and embrace their available choices to lead healthier lives. Roger also teaches and leads discussion groups and retreats applying the Gospel to everyday life. He is a licensed clinical mental health counselor (LCMHC), holds a master’s degree in biblical counseling from Grace Theological Seminary in Indiana and a bachelor’s degree in engineering from the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. He is married to Jean; they have seven children and nine grandchildren.
