When you first fall in love…
You don’t care about the laundry, unless it means your perfect pair of jeans isn’t available when you need to look good.
You don’t worry over what’s for dinner, unless he’s coming over to eat it with you.
You scoff at financial troubles, telling yourself it will all work out in the end.
You don’t cry over spilt milk. You cry about the big stuff. The frustrating telephone conversations. The roller coaster of good and bad dates. The injustice of having to wait…
And you think to yourself, when we are finally together, as we are meant to be, the rest will fall into place...If you could have this one thing…just this one, all would be fantastic, and happily ever after would swoop in and sweep you off your feet.
This is what being in love does to you. It focuses your life in such a way that nothing else matters. Your purpose is clear and defined. You don’t sweat the small stuff. You don’t get bogged down by the little things.
And it’s not just being in love, is it? It’s the next big vacation or promotion. It’s Christmas time again. It’s moving to a different city and making a new start. It’s the greener grass calling to you from the other side of the hill.
No doubt, there is a hint of bitterness in my voice as I type this. There is. But it isn’t there because I think the above reality should be altered in any way. Let the young in love dream big dreams and let those depressed by winter’s darkness look ahead to sunny vacations. Hopes aren’t bad, even if they may be disappointed to some extent later on.
But what about when there isn’t a focus? What about the in-between times when the little things are all you have? What about loving for richer or poorer and in sickness or health? Or maybe you go to Florida for March Break and the weather is cold and rainy…maybe after three months on the job, the new promotion just looks like more work.
When what you have for dinner is the most exciting thing coming up that day…it becomes a lot more important, and stress-inducing. What do I feel like today? Will I be satisfied with the same old thing again? Can I afford to make something fancier? I really need to lose weight…etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
So maybe smaller times call for smaller measures. Yes, maybe true. Partially at least. Counting the smallest blessings…doing little special things for those you love…making yourself a fancy meal for no reason at all. It becomes all about putting in the time and staving off depression while you wait for the next big event. No, it doesn’t quite satisfy, does it?
I’d like to argue that smaller times call for larger hopes…more distant ones that aren’t so tangible. Hopes that go beyond the basics needs of health and happiness…hopes that are rooted somewhere where the grass really is greener, and where hope does not disappoint us.
The season of advent is long past now. But I find myself seeking its solace more and more this time of year. Perhaps it’s something akin to seasonal affective disorder, or perhaps it’s just that the winter months can be long and filled with lots of boring but necessary little things. We do a lot of waiting before Christmas, to be sure. We wait for the sweet reward of relaxation and reflection on Christmas morning, after a busy month of preparation. We wait for the warm fuzzies to take over. And they do…for a while.
But the inevitable boxing day comes, and those of us who are sane enough to skip out on shopping feel the acute pangs of some great loss…what we’ve lost is the hope and expectation for greater things. We’ve eaten the last chocolate in the calendar and the shell that’s left gets put in the recycling bin. And we get ready to be hopeless again…to go back to the small scrooge-like existence we had before.
But what if there was another advent? What if there was an event to beat all other events coming up? What if we had access to a hope so great and true it could sustain us through our smallest moments and our biggest let-downs? What if we finally got something that was promised to us?
Then…
Then I suppose we wouldn’t care about the laundry, because we’d hope for clothes that don’t get dirty.
We wouldn’t worry about what’s for dinner, because we’d be looking forward to a feast of heavenly proportions.
We’d scoff at financial troubles, knowing that our needs will be met in completion.
We wouldn’t cry over spilt milk, because we’re hoping for a day when every tear is dried.
No wonder John ends his writings with such a simple phrase. It’s the same phrase that echoes in our collective hope-starved consciousness time and time again…
Come, Lord Jesus, come.
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