Advent I: Becoming expectant

Expectations are the kiss of death. As they say in 12-step recovery circles, “Expectations are premeditated resentments.” No matter how hard I try, I find myself walking through life with countless expectations. I rejoice when they’re met and groan when they are not.

Nowhere is that more apparent than during the holidays. Whether fueled by romantic views of my childhood, or a deep longing for things to be “just so,” I come to this time of year with a sleigh full of expectations. No wonder I’m often frustrated and disappointed. I end up seeing what isn’t, rather than what is.

This year I’m trying to change my perspective by altering my stance. Instead of standing back, leaning on my heels with arms crossed waiting to see how this Christmas season doesn’t meet my expectations, I’m unfolding my arms and leaning on my toes as if peering over a wall to see what this season might bring. I’m trying to give up my expectations so I can become expectant

With such a changed stance, the season itself becomes a gift. I unwrap it, not wondering if the giver had listened to my instructions and bought what I specifically asked for. Instead, I celebrate the mystery of the gift itself, knowing the giver knows just what I need.

Thanksgiving 2022: Who's at your table?

One of my favorite episodes of Modern Family is when they try to replicate the Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving painting. As you can imagine, nothing goes right and by the time the photograph is taken the audience gets the point: no Thanksgiving gathering is perfect. More than that, however, is the deeper point that within all the imperfections is something sacred.

It leaves me wondering about this year’s Thanksgiving and who will be at our tables. Will it be a collection of family members trying to replicate an ideal painting? Will people dress up and only bring their “acceptable” selves? Will the couple whose marriage is on the rocks smile as they try to get a picture for the Christmas card? Will the person unhappy at work tout his most recent success? Will the anxious child pretend such gatherings are easy? Will the one who drinks too much at family occasions wait until people leave to crawl inside the bottle? Will the grieving spouse refrain from looking at the empty seat on her right?

Like the television sitcom, it’s tempting at this time of year to present the edited versions of our families and ourselves. Such perfection is impossible, such striving exhausting. Maybe it’s time to give our imperfections a seat at the table. Who knows, maybe in doing so we’ll find something sacred.

Dragons

“Here be dragons,” were the familiar words written by the early cartographers who knew not what lay beyond the lines they’d drawn on the map. It was the unknown, a place probably full of dangers of one kind or another. The words were a warning, I suppose, or at least a way to name the fear.

Although the world is well-drawn these days, fear of the unknown still abounds. The dangers are no longer geographical so much as professional, relational, emotional, or psychological. Just like years ago, most people prefer dwelling in the familiar, in the safe. Who needs dragons, they ask, and cease from adventures of any kind.

I began an adventure several years ago, and there have been moments when I’ve wanted to quit, return to the world I’ve known, but I didn’t. I continued, one step at a time, sometimes out of stubbornness as much as courage. I set out to write a book, something countless people think about doing. I had no idea where the adventure would lead, and I’ve encountered more dragons than I knew existed. “This is no good. Who are you to think you could write anything someone else would want to read?” they roared. The flames of comparison and judging my work were as hot as any from a mythological beast.

And yet . . .

On Friday, I held in my hands the advanced copy of my novel, Burning Faith. Holding it was like holding a child. I thought the moment would push all dragons aside, but they returned in force. My work was about to leave the safety of my arms and venture beyond my well-drawn world. I cannot protect it from what lies beyond my arms. There will be people who like it, hate it, and not care a thing about it. Some will think I have talent, others, none at all. Such is the price for writing a book, or doing anything that’s uncertain. If it were not so, everyone would write a book . . . take a new job, try out for a play, have an art show.

There are dragons everywhere. I suppose, the point is to recognize them as signs you’re on an adventure and celebrate the courage it took to go beyond the lines on the map.

(Burning Faith is a story about a church that burns on Christmas and how people find their faith without a building. It will be available through Amazon on December 1.)