The waiting is over. Joy to the World has been sung, the purple, pink, and white candles blown out, and perhaps (though definitely not at our house) the Advent wreath has already been wrapped up and tucked away until next year.
It has been confirmed my friends: The little Lord Jesus has, indeed, laid down his sweet head. End of story. Hello new year.
There's only one problem in the "Klaskins" household: We're still waiting.
Advent worked for me, for our family, in our hoping-to-be-adoptive parents anticipation. As we lit the candles, sang "O Come, O Come Emmanuel," and sipped eggnog by a crackling fire (provided by Hulu's "Christmas Yule Log" channel of course, not an actual fireplace), the waiting made sense. The whole world was waiting after all--waiting for a savior, waiting for the in-breaking of love into our world, waiting for the crash of a dove and the gentle whisper of the spirit all wrapped up in the birth of one tiny baby boy.
I'm not particularly good at waiting. Patience isn't my strongest virtue. I can feel the energy, the expectation, the anticipation building up inside of me as we continue to await the birth of our own infant, our own one-day baby boy or baby girl.
It was easier when the world was waiting with us--bated breath and full hearts, easier when the narrative of our faith fell into succinct step with the story of our family.
As the liturgical calendar unfolds, as our journey brings us to the synagogue, to Jerusalem, and to all that awaits our newborn savior, we will still have a foot in the stable, an eye on the manger, waiting for another birth, an additional in-breaking.
May it be so.