It is not enough to sit still, hands folded,
as if the world turns without our longing.
Advent is a practice of noticing—
the way the light changes by the hour,
how the frost etches its delicate lace
on the windowpane,
and the silence hums with expectation.

This waiting is not empty.
It is a stirring, a gathering—
like birds preparing for flight,
their wings restless with purpose.

I think of the way the earth holds its secrets,
how seeds split open underground
long before green breaks the surface.
How could we not see it?
How could we not feel
the slow burn of grace coming closer?

Here is what I know:
We wait not to receive but to become,
our hearts bending toward the eternal,
like rivers pulled by the moon.

So, let us walk out into this waiting,
into the fields or the woods or the quiet
of a winter morning.
Let us listen for what the wind carries,
for the sound of footsteps on the horizon.

And when He comes,
may we find ourselves already moving,
already leaning toward the light,
our hands open,
our lives a wide and wondrous yes.