The couple had long ago resigned themselves to the fact that they would never conceive a child. They had tried everything. At first they just tried and hoped and prayed, and tried again. After a couple of years, they saw some doctors who ran preliminary tests, gave some advice, and told them to try again. Time passed but nothing happened.

It had been several years since they had applied to adopt a child. In those days, there was an age limit for folks who wanted to adopt an infant, and the couple was rapidly approaching that threshold. Their vision of being a family with children, a hope that had once burned so brightly in each of them was now reduced to mere embers. Convinced that they had received a resounding “no” to their prayers, he finally immersed himself in work, and she decided to pursue a master’s degree to take her mind off of her broken heart.

Not long after she had enrolled, in the autumn of 1983, she received the most unexpected phone call of her life. “Mrs. Grassel,” the social worker said, “your baby girl is here, waiting for you.” The story I just told you is the story of my advent; of how I came to be the daughter of two parents who had nearly lost all hope.

Anyone who has ever longed and hoped for something and finally had those hopes fulfilled can understand the purpose of the Advent season. The Advent experience is one of believing when we can’t yet perceive, of hoping without knowing our hopes will be fulfilled, but living as if they will be. It is not a Christmas kind of hoping, where hindsight cheers us along our way. This is the experience of hoping and waiting before any signs or proclamations, hoping when hope seems all but pointless.

This kind of hoping doesn’t come naturally for most people; it takes practice. Dark times, times when we wonder if the world is out to get us, times when we simply can’t imagine how we will ever find our way again can just about kill the hope inside us if we are not prepared for them. Without the spiritual stamina that Advent practice builds in us, hope unfulfilled can deteriorate into a life devoid of hope all together.

I imagine that’s why the early leaders of the Christian Church instituted Advent as an entire season, a span of four Sundays devoted to the practice of faithful waiting. During our midnights of the soul, faithful hope can show us the way if we are ready. Although adoption was an option all along, many couples like my parents do not really consider it until after they have experienced the pain of infertility. In this way, the possibility of a new direction, a new beginning, or the fulfillment of a promise can be revealed in the midst of our pain and hopelessness.

Whatever you are waiting for, whether it’s a job after a long stretch of unemployment, a scholarship so you can go to college or trade school, if you’re waiting for your spouse or child to return home after a tour in the armed forces or for doctors to figure out how to help you heal, in this season we honor the reality of what this kind of hard waiting is like. It is a season to lift up words of comfort and tenderness, words spoken in love to those who feel exiled from the world and lives they know they are meant for.

Whether it be the miracle of a guiding light in the darkness of night, the miraculous appearance of oil when previously there was none, a dose of justice in the midst of oppression, or the homecoming of a long-hoped-for child, we need this time. For one season a year, along with nearly everyone around us, we need to risk opening ourselves up to hope, even when the object of our hope seems impossible, too idealistic all other days.

So, as we deepen into this season of waiting and hoping, may we remember that the Spirit of Love is already lifting the valleys and making low the mountains of our souls, Its path straight into our hearts and lives to dwell.

Amen.