Is it ever really waiting when we're so caught up in other things?

I know that Advent is supposed to be all about waiting for Jesus' birth. I know it. For years, I've watched the wreath be lit once a week until Christmas; I've lit it myself. Yet the whole ritual hadn't even crossed my mind until my first visit to church last Sunday--already with so few candles left to light.

I accidentally stumbled into my own sort of Advent, only instead of candles, it was with writing--or reading about writing anyways. I decided a while ago that I was going to read one chapter each Sunday from Annie Dillard's The Writing Life. I thought it would be a good reminder to write and why and how and even if I still couldn't, I had this little book to tell me that was all right--sometimes you just can't write.

At only seven chapters long, it seemed an easy commitment; in less than two months, the book would be over. So every Sunday evening, I sat down in my chair for a short discussion on writing. It didn't take me long in December to realize that the last chapter would fall two days before Christmas. I saved the last chapter for tonight, like the lighting of the last candle on the wreath.



The past few days have had a lot of this waiting: when will I get to see my friends? when will the "holidays" be over? when will I get to Arizona? In much more short-term waiting, though, I made ice cream today.

It was a real spur-of-the-moment thing. I was shopping for ingredients to make some holiday nom-noms, and I saw SoyNog on sale: 2 for $5. What the heck, why not! I've been wanting to try it anyways. Once home, I poured a glass to sip as I unpacked my groceries. I stood leaning against the counter with the glass in one hand, almost to my mouth, and the carton in the other, close to my face as I read the side panels. Like the free patterns on packages of yarn, I tend to ignore the recipes on the boxes of food, but this one caught my eye: SoyNog ice cream. I perused the ingredients, and shockingly, I was well-stocked on all of them.

So I whisked and I stirred, and I heated to a boil, and I watched it thicken and bubble like pie filling. I let it cool, and read the rest of the instructions: "Chill in the refrigerator for four hours. Finish with ice cream machine as instructed." Uhh, I don't have an ice cream machine. This is why you should always read the whole recipe before starting to cook, but come on, in school, we were always told to scan a textbook's chapter before reading it, but no one actually did it.

Luckily, of course, my friend, Google, came to the rescue: "how to make ice cream without machine..." What does it require? Time, patience...waiting. The gist of what I read was basically that when the cream freezes, little ice pieces freeze first, separating from the creamy part. An ice cream machine keeps it freezing while getting that slow-churn action going to make it freeze evenly, not giving the ice pieces a chance to take the lead. How to make it without a machine? Take it out every half-hour and stir it. Okie doke. So I did. Seven hours later, I think I have--what is as close as it's going to get to--ice cream.



Of course my evening trip to the Christmas Eve service interrupted the half-hour intervals, so I had to cheat a little on the stirring. For some reason, I expected a traditional Christmas Eve. I pictured a piano as the main instrument, and the dimmed lights of the theatre would be perfect for the candle-lit exit of "Silent Night." That was what I have always known, so I didn't expect any different. When the service ended with a catchy guitar riff solo-ing its way through "Joy to the World," I was a bit thrown off. Then, to exit the theatre into a packed shopping mall with fake snow and "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" blaring from every angle just totally threw me off.

I guess the good thing about the whole Christmas Eve scenario is that it is new. This is my life now. I'm not at a dwindling Presbyterian church on a hill in the woods of Southwestern, PA. I'm not sitting next to my mother or keeping my peripheral on my cousin to check his grip on his lit candle. I'm not watching "It's a Wonderful Life" with my dad and grandma or exchanging gifts with my sister. I'm not getting up tomorrow and going to Derek's house.

I am in Seattle now. I still have to remind myself of it. I walked out to the festive, lit streets of downtown and listened to the shuffle of people. I felt like a mouse in a maze, trying to avoid running into people. The bus was my cheese, and I made it just in time.

When I got off the bus, my neighborhood was eerily quiet. Usually, I can hear the chatter of people in the distance or a dog's collar jingling against its leash or drops of rain falling from the tips of leaves and branches in a passing breeze. After the bus turned off, and the hydraulics puffed out their quick sigh, there was nothing but my breath and my steps. I looked at the moon, half-hiding in thick clouds, seeming exceptionally small and distant. I imagined the street lamps were candles and sang "Silent Night" until I couldn't remember the words.



I've been really fighting the idea of holidays this year. For a while, I had convinced myself that I was going to sit at home by myself and pretend like it was Boxing Day, and Christmas was a passing thought. The idea seemed appealing until I was out of work, spending most days home in the same patterns of knitting and reading because apparently my body decided that it didn't need to sleep until the hour hit well into tomorrow. Not only was the dull pattern forcing me to keep track of the days, but almost everyday, I got a Christmas card in the mail. Each time, I was surprised and happy: someone remembered me, even though I'm all the way on the other side of the compass.

Try as I might, I couldn't fully resist the holiday spirit. The problem with embracing it, though, is that then I have to also accept the other side: the absence and the grief.

Several years ago, our Touring Choir at school sang in a December service called "The Empty Chair." As I sat and reflected on how blessed I was that all of the chairs at our table were full, I was deeply moved by the sad faces staring back at the choir: the people who had one less place-setting that year.

Today, I think about a lot of things and a lot of empty chairs. I think about the families in Connecticut who are missing their little ones. I selfishly think about Derek. I think about how even though other people are grieving such deep, still-bleeding wounds, I find myself picking the scabs as if it could get me any closer to him.

I think about how we're all at the same table. How many people can gather around for Christmas and honestly say they aren't missing someone? I wonder if my family misses me at their table. I think about how some people don't even have a table or a meal or a family to celebrate with. Celebrate. Celebration. Christmas is a celebration of life, of birth, of light, and yet I have all of these big, sad feelings hovering over me like tonight's cloudy moon.



As I walked home from my bus stop, I looked at the houses with their bright lights and colorful decorations. I thought about how it seemed not too long ago that they were decorated with Halloween. I thought about how not too long before that, I had never even seen these streets.

Now the waiting is over. It's Christmas: Eve & Day and day-after. It still doesn't quite feel like it. Maybe because there were guys wearing shorts outside the other day. Maybe because, like last year, I've been focusing my thoughts on Arizona. Maybe it's because the only sign of Christmas at my apartment is the array of sparkling cards tacked to my wall. (Even though I really hate decorating, Christmas at home wouldn't feel right without the tree and the same ornaments every year and my mother's ga-zillion cat decorations: cats in scarves and sleeping cats and cats hanging from garland.)

I've decided that you know you're an adult when the most exciting thing you can do for yourself for the holiday is to take your sheets to the laundromat. That and cook. I don't mind laundry, and I like to cook, so I guess this "adult" thing is alright.

So I've stopped fighting the fact that it's Christmas. It's here. No more anticipation. No more waiting. Yeah, it's not a Christmas I have ever known before, but I'm trying not to let my head get too clogged with thoughts about trying not to think about the things that are actually on my mind and just let the day be and (try to) accept the adjustments.

Now I'll snuggle into my clean sheets, with that last spoon of SoyNog ice cream that didn't fit in the Tupperware still on my tongue, and I'll watch "White Christmas," thinking about our annual White Christmas Party and thinking about my friends in Waynesburg and Pennsylvania, and the people I miss there and elsewhere and the people I miss no matter where I go. And that all still sounds so sad, and I don't mean for it to. I'm counting my blessings, and they are many.

"When I'm worried and I can't sleep, I count my blessings instead of sheep, and I fall asleep counting my blessings..."