Our Advent wreath this year reflects our circumstance and time. 2020 will long be remembered as a year of limited going and doing, as well as simplifying. In our kitchen we use what we have instead of making a trip to the store for ingredients missing in a recipe. Having groceries delivered to home or curbside means planning ahead and accepting what comes in the order as substitutions for items not available. Sometimes it means not getting everything on the list. When I looked through the candles we had stored, traditional colors of Advent candles left from last year looked short and fully dripped. So we used what we have, different colors. We keep the meaning of each candle as we light it with brief reflections. Our grandchildren sense the wonder and mystery in the flames and only a word or two. Tonight we light the 4th candle. The candle of love, reflected in the eyes of a child. We seek the whole mystery. We receive all we are given and wait. We find a gift here, in upturned faces. Look! Don’t miss this!

How often do we miss the fainter note
Or fail to see the more exquisite hue,
Blind to the tiny streamlet at our feet,
Eyes fixed upon some other, further view.
What chimes of harmonies escape our ears,
How many rainbows must elude our sight,
We see a field but do not see the grass,
Each blade a miracle of shade and light.
How then to keep the greater end in eye
And watch the sunlight on the distant peak,
And yet not tread on any leaf of love,
Nor miss a word the eager children speak?
Ah, what demand upon the narrow heart,
To seek the whole, yet not ignore the part.

Phillip Britt, from Water at the Roots, 1947

Step softly, under snow or rain,
    To find the place where men can pray;
The way is all so very plain
    That we may lose the way.

Oh, we have learnt to peer and pore
    On tortured puzzles from our youth,
We know all labyrinthine lore,
We are the three wise men of yore,
    And we know all things but the truth.

We have gone round and round the hill
    And lost the wood among the trees,
And learnt long names for every ill,
And served the mad gods, naming still
    The furies the Eumenides.

The gods of violence took the veil
    Of vision and philosophy,
The Serpent that brought all men bale,
He bites his own accursed tail,
    And calls himself Eternity.

Go humbly…it has hailed and snowed…
    With voices low and lanterns lit;
So very simple is the road,
    That we may stray from it.

The world grows terrible and white,
    And blinding white the breaking day;
We walk bewildered in the light,
For something is too large for sight,
    And something much too plain to say.

The Child that was ere worlds begun
    (…We need but walk a little way,
We need but see a latch undone…)
The Child that played with moon and sun
    Is playing with a little hay.

The house from which the heavens are fed,
    The old strange house that is our own,
Where trick of words are never said,
And Mercy is as plain as bread,
    And Honour is as hard as stone.

Go humbly, humble are the skies,
    And low and large and fierce the Star;
So very near the Manger lies
    That we may travel far.

Hark! Laughter like a lion wakes
    To roar to the resounding plain.
And the whole heaven shouts and shakes,
    For God Himself is born again,
And we are little children walking
    Through the snow and rain.

G.K. Chesterton