December

Every year, when the calendar turns to December, something inside me exhales. The world outside seems to dim and hush, but inside—inside my home, inside my chest—things glow a little warmer. Advent has always been my favorite season. I love the idea of waiting, expecting, holding space for what is not yet but is surely on its way. It reminds me of the most sacred waiting of my life: being pregnant with my first child, who arrived nineteen years ago today, on St. Nicholas Day.

This morning, I’m writing from the family room, the fireplace quietly humming along, a kitty cat curled near my feet. The Christmas tree is lit, but only with lights—no ornaments yet—and the room feels soft and contemplative in that particular way December knows how to be. Advent does this to me: it slows me down, invites me to notice the small glimmers in the dim places. It’s impossible to sit in this kind of stillness without missing people. December is full of memory. Full of absences. Full of the small rituals I keep to honor the ones I’ve loved and lost.

But today is also a birthday. My son’s. Nineteen. I have his favorite chocolate cake ready—chocolate with chocolate frosting, because some traditions just shouldn’t be altered—and we’ll do something together as a family. Maybe bowling. Maybe the model train show at the Botanical Gardens. It doesn’t matter much what we do; it matters that we’re together, that we make a bright spot in the middle of winter for him. That, too, feels like Advent to me: choosing joy even when the days are short.

Professionally, things are hard right now. Meaningful, important, necessary—but hard. December is when I feel the weight of it most. If I let the stress consume me, it will. So I try to create pockets of rest. Pockets of remembrance. Pockets of gratitude. Advent reminds me that waiting isn’t passive—it’s a practice of hope. A practice of trusting that light returns.

This month I’ll serve at church most Sundays, maybe even on Christmas and Christmas Eve. I’ll sing, and singing always brings me back to myself. There’s something about Advent hymns—their longing, their promise—that makes the season feel ancient and new all at once. I’ll bake cookies—too many cookies, probably—and in the baking, I’ll remember the people I’m missing. I’ll pull out their recipes, with the handwriting I know by heart, and I’ll make the cookies they loved. It’s a small ritual, maybe, but it’s one that anchors me. A way of carrying them forward into another December. A way of embodying the Advent promise that love doesn’t disappear; it changes form and keeps going.

So that’s what this month is for me: waiting and remembering, celebrating and grieving, working and resting, holding on and letting go. December is complicated—but it’s also beautiful. And every year, I’m grateful for it.