The Longing Before the Light
Each year, Christmas seems to arrive a little earlier. Before the leaves have finished falling, lights twinkle on porches and carols drift through grocery aisles. Once, I thought we were rushing the season — hurrying past autumn into winter’s brightness too soon. Now, I think something deeper is happening. Maybe we start early because we need something beautiful to look forward to.
We prepare not just our homes, but our hearts. The glow of early lights and the scent of pine remind us that hope is near. In a world that often feels uncertain, we reach toward what is steady — warmth, light, and love.
Long before Christmas turned into a season of busyness, the Church gave us Advent — a time of quiet preparation. Those weeks of waiting were never about decoration or gifts. They were about readiness. The candles and hymns invited us to look inward, to clear away clutter and make space for something sacred.
Even if we don’t follow every tradition of Advent, the spirit of it lingers. We still feel the pull to prepare — to clean, to bake, to light candles, to soften our homes and our hearts. Deep down, our souls recognize the rhythm: something special is drawing near.
When I was younger, Christmas seemed to burst into being all at once — a single, bright day that passed too quickly. Now, I find joy in its slow unfolding. The early signs of the season — music, baking, lights glowing through windows — feel like small prayers of hope. Maybe we begin early not because we’re impatient, but because we crave peace and promise.
The early lights don’t steal Christmas’s meaning; they stretch it. They give us room to breathe, to savor, to prepare. Hanging garlands, lighting candles, or wrapping gifts can be sacred acts if done with intention.
Preparation isn’t just about what we do on the outside. It’s about how we ready the heart. Forgiving someone, reaching out to a friend, or spending a quiet moment in prayer — these are forms of preparation, too. They open space for peace to enter.
So if Christmas seems to start earlier each year, maybe that’s no mistake. Maybe it’s grace — giving us more time to dwell in beauty, more time to turn our hearts toward light.
When the first evening lights glow against the dark, let them remind you that we are people who wait for the Light. Waiting is not wasted time. It’s holy time. The season of preparation teaches us that joy doesn’t come in a rush — it grows slowly, in hearts that are ready to receive it.
