Dear Friends,

As I write, leaves swirl in the wind, and the tight buds for next year are already visible on the backyard maples. Darkness is arriving earlier, and the cold keeps us inside. As a friend recently wrote, “The slow work of winter curls inward as Advent begins.” This is a season not only of hibernation but also of gestation - a quiet preparation for what is to come.

We all understand this rhythm. Yet, it is hard to truly "know" it when life as we know it ends—whether suddenly or gradually. Whether it’s the loss of a loved one, a decline in physical or mental capacity, or the closing of a career or vocation, it’s often difficult to glimpse the promise of new life on the horizon. I am especially aware of this as I grieve the loss of my beloved friend and colleague, Shelby Owen. Even so, I am confident that she is living fully into that life which lies beyond the horizon.

Gayle Boss, in her book All Creation Waits, has been a source of wisdom to me as I reflect on the mystery of endings and beginnings. In her stories of painted turtles, chipmunks, opossums, and cardinals, she describes the rhythms of waiting that are life-preserving in her Michigan landscape. Her reflections on the fear that darkness might last forever resonate deeply, but she also offers hope: “The church history book that got hold of me told me that my own annual December sadness was no reason for guilt. It was a sign of being wide awake in the world, awake enough to sense loss. And furthermore, there was a way to engage that sadness. That way was Advent.”*

Advent is traditionally a time of waiting for the birth of Jesus—again and again. Spanning the four Sundays before Christmas, it marks the beginning of the church year. For some, it is a period of fasting and prayer; for others, a time of preparation and excitement. For me, Advent is an invitation both inward and outward—to reflect and ponder, to enter the mystery and silence of God’s presence, whether within ourselves or out in the natural world.

Yet this Sunday’s gospel offers an unsettling image: natural disasters and human fears, sinister signs and dire warnings. Like the video games my sons played while home for Thanksgiving, it’s a scene of outward chaos—Luke’s description of God’s realm arriving on a cloud, like a cosmic rescue squad. These apocalyptic images seem to suggest that earthly chaos can only be met by an equally dramatic response, and some may even long for such an ending.

But in the midst of this turmoil, Jesus offers a quiet story: “When leaves sprout, you know that summer’s coming. You’ll need to stay awake to see it.” He invites us not to let fear lead to despair or distractions, but to notice the small signs of life. Pay attention to the buds of newness against the winter sky. Listen for the heartbeat of life beneath a snowy crust. The realm of God is as near as the leaf on a tree.

In Christ,

Amelie+

*Gayle Boss, All Creation Waits: The Advent Mystery of New Beginnings (Brewster: Paraclete Press, 2016), Kindle, Introduction.