When I was a child, my siblings and I would spend hours looking through the catalogs from Sears and JC Penney. If Christmas was coming, you could often find a child lying on the living room floor, head propped on one elbow while the other hand flipped carefully through the pages, one by one.
By the time we were writing letters for Santa, we knew just what we wanted, even if we selected a toy that we had only seen in a tiny square photo printed on one of those catalog pages. We knew we might not get what we asked Santa for, but deciding what we wanted was a big deal.
One December, as we were counting down the days, my father started working on an enormous construction project in the middle of our basement. That was our main playroom, so we were there all the time, watching him work, admiring the shape and the different pieces of wood as it came together. We even helped a bit, holding the lumber in place for him to screw the pieces together. We felt important and proud to participate in such a project.
My father told us it was a doghouse, and that seemed reasonable to our young, apparently un-inquiring minds. I don’t recall any of the children asking why he would build a doghouse when we didn’t have a dog. My parents had been clear and firm in their plans never to own a dog. Yet here was my father, building a doghouse in our basement.
Christmas morning came. When we came barreling into the living room – after pausing for the annual family photo beside our stockings on the staircase – we discovered a large red wooden fire engine. The “doghouse” was, in fact, a fire truck in which children could ride. It had wooden wheels, a steering wheel, and even a ladder.
It was the most wonderful surprise. My father had built it upside-down in the basement and put the wheels on at the last minute – the way fathers do with so many toy-assembling tasks on Christmas Eve. We could hardly believe our luck. We had so much fun with that fire engine, giving each other rides in it and enjoying the fact that our father had built it himself.
I look back on those weeks leading up to one very special Christmas and laugh. My siblings and I were little and accepted – without question – our Daddy’s word that he was building a doghouse. He created a magnificent Christmas gift in front of our eyes. We were right there, watching and helping. We just didn’t recognize what he was creating for us to enjoy.
Advent is often like that, too. As the days pass and Christmas approaches, you might find yourself distracted by what you think is central to the season. But what matters more is often what is happening quietly below the surface – the way God is preparing your heart to welcome the baby Jesus on
Christmas morning.
Some Advents we might recognize the way God is at work in our lives on the path to Bethlehem. Other Advents fly by in the busyness of life and getting ready for the holiday. But regardless of the work we do, Jesus comes at Christmas – and he greets us with open arms.
“Open wide your door to the one who comes,” St. Ambrose of Milan tells us. “Open your soul, throw open the depths of your heart to see the riches of simplicity, the treasures of peace, the sweetness of grace. Open your heart and run to meet the sun of eternal light that illuminates all men.”
Whether we have recognized how God is at work in our lives or missed some of the clues, Jesus will be waiting for us to come running to meet him in the manger on Christmas morning. For now, he is preparing for that special moment and waiting for us with peace, hope and love. All we need to do is open our heart and greet him with joy.
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