Advent is the crack of dawn before light,
not absence but the tender weight of approach.
It is the stillness that trembles with purpose,
the air heavy with the scent of an unseen rain.

We do not wait as stones wait for the tide,
unmoved and inert, shaped only by time.
We wait as seeds press against the dark soil,
restless with the quiet energy of becoming.

In this waiting, we are not idle.
Our prayers stretch upward like fragile shoots,
our hearts kneel low, turning toward the horizon
where the eternal story bends to touch the now.

This is the posture of expectation:
not leaning forward in haste
but opening wide, arms outstretched
to catch the falling grace of God.

The candles we light are not for time’s passing,
but for the gathering of promises,
each flame a fragile cry: Come, Lord Jesus.
Not to banish but to fill.

And in this waiting, we align ourselves
with the One who waits for us—
the eternal Word, whose voice lingers
like a distant bell calling us home.

In this holy ache, this active surrender,
we are drawn into the rhythm of the infinite:
each step, a prayer; each breath, a yes.
For He comes not only to fulfill,
but to make of us a new creation.