Waiting for the Light by Susan Tucker

Waiting for the Light

by Susan Tucker

“What feelings do you have coming into this season of Advent?”

 I hear the question spoken through my tangled earbuds as I walk the two-and-a-half-mile trail I’ve walked countless times since the pandemic began. This 185-acre public park has become my sanctuary over the past nine months, offering wide skies, fresh air, the beauty of native trees and shrubs, and an up-close view of the Tennessee River. Here, I have confessed my fear, my anger, and my sorrow; here, I have humbled myself to ask for help; here, I have witnessed the glory of God and worshipped; and here, I have found my way back to an embodied experience of the divine.

On this chilly afternoon in December, I am just passing the landmark that denotes the first mile of my walk when I hear the podcaster’s question. Knowing it’s not posed rhetorically, I press pause to honor it with a response, but first, I shift my focus from my surroundings to my internal landscape. What feelings do I have?

Immediately, I notice a sense of incredulity, for this seems a laughable question coming at the end of 2020. An easier question would be “What feelings don’t I have?” I wonder, “Am I reacting this way because I’m an Enneagram 4?” Truly, I don’t think so, and I dismiss a familiar temptation to mock my multitude of emotions. I think I’m feeling so much because I’m a human being living amid deeply uncertain times. Probably like so many others, right now I have all the feelings. 

 With each step I take, I name them…

I feel astonished that this virus, which I thought would be under control by summertime, is still raging. 

I feel angry that the election that was decided weeks ago is still being contested. 

I feel afraid for dear friends who are currently sick with COVID-19, and I feel anxious for my husband who is awaiting the results of his COVID test. 

I feel concerned for my elderly parents who won’t stay home, don’t always wear their masks correctly, and fail to distance properly.

I feel grief for a friendship that was lost this year due to political fervor and fury, and I feel gratitude for those who love me even though we may think and vote differently.

I feel longing for my two young adult sons to come home soon for the holidays. 

I feel blessed for the roof over our heads, our secure jobs, and our stocked pantry, and I feel burdened for those who can’t say the same.

I feel the exhaustion of white-knuckling hope in a season that feels downright hopeless.

I feel the tension of longing for the Kingdom Come while living in the world here-and-now. 

As I name these feelings, my steps lead me to a part of the path that meanders beside the riverbed. The branches and lingering foliage of sycamore, sweetgum, and river birch provide a canopy that casts me into momentary shade. I settle into silence. I allow my confession to fill the shadowed space surrounding me. I feel relief in my naming. Eventually, I begin to wonder, “Where is God in all this?”

When she speaks of Advent, Ruth Hailey Barton acknowledges the first coming of Christ (the incarnation) and the second coming of Christ (his anticipated return), but she also speaks of a third coming—Christ coming into the real moments of our daily lives. She explains that this third coming requires that we name our longings, realize that we are not in control, anticipate Jesus’s coming, and awaken to His presence.

Recalling Barton’s words, I reframe my question as a statement: “God, I need you in all of this.”

 This statement becomes my breath prayer as I continue walking. “God, I need you in all of this.” Inhale. “God, I need you.” Inhale. “Jesus, I need you.” Inhale.

I reach the bend in the path that leads me away from the river and out of the shadows, and as I turn, I step into the light. I raise my eyes to discover wispy cirrus clouds dancing across the sapphire sky. The fragrance from a hedge of sweet osmanthus envelops me, and I search the nearby foliage to discover the small white flowers that reveal the source. I continue to confess, “Jesus, I need you,” and as I inhale, I savor the gift of the magical sky and perfumed air. 

When I finish the day’s walk, I pause for a moment to sit on my favorite bench overlooking the river. I check in with myself and notice that all my feelings are still present; however, I’m not holding them alone. Emmanuel, God with me. 

In this Advent season, I’m continuing to name my longing, inviting Jesus to come and watching for Him. Maybe He’ll arrive like a Christmas carol carried on the wind, a sweet scent in the air, or a star in the East. However He comes, I’ll be waiting and watching.