Advent has enchanted me since childhood. I can still picture my pudgy little fingers pressing through the thin cardboard of an Advent calendar to reveal a perfectly shaped milk chocolate treasure. Even then, it took all of my self-control to slow down and take it day by day. “Maybe I should have two today?” I would coerce my mother. And often, she’d give in, reminding me that it would mean there wouldn’t be one for tomorrow. We both knew I’d get two the following day too, and that we’d get another Advent calendar if we needed to.
As I’ve grown older, I’ve found myself leaning even deeper into my love of Advent. Each day feels more sacred now—a time for ritual—and each week invites space for meaningful reflection.
My favorite writers aren’t publishing Advent studies this year, and I find myself unexpectedly grateful. While I’ve enjoyed following along in the past, they sometimes felt like obligations—tasks to complete rather than invitations to reflect. And it feels so lovely to have this year be wide open and free. Alongside my reflection on Advent, I’ll be reading about Yule, Winter Solstice, and what’s going on in our natural world this time of year, thanks to a beautiful gift from my best friend.1 I’ll be reading from my favorite Advent book, “All Creation Waits” and I’ll be here, each week of Advent sharing a little about this season of waiting and longing. So here we go.
The first Sunday of Advent just passed and is represented on a traditional Advent Wreath2 by the “Prophecy Candle.” This week embodies the concept of HOPE. Light the first of four candles, and it let it flicker nearby while you read.
When there is nothing, there is still hope.
This week represents the tiny light within us all. The tiniest speck illuminating in the midst of darkness. This week I think of the sobering feeling when all we have is hope. This was the time, historically, that the prophecies and promises of old had to be relied upon. The sun and the Son would arrive. In the deepest darkness, hope can feel elusive—not only hard to feel but even harder to believe in. Yet it lingers, a tiny ember waiting to ignite.
Hope is a powerful medicine in the darkness of grief. I have called my work as a therapist, being a Hope Dealer before. Because I find my clients in the darkest of nights, and I convince them, there is something coming. I cannot promise them what, when, how, or how long it will be dark before it arrives, but I can promise them that it will not remain this dark forever.
And sometimes, when it is so very dark, I am convincing my own heart right alongside theirs.
Emily Dickinson said:
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
She’s right, it is this winged thing, that perches deep inside us, neverending, never dying, never stopping, and never giving in. It is gently persistent, and I believe Hope is much like a muscle. It strengthens with practice, but it also needs rest to recover and thrive. In the stillness, even when we cannot see its progress, hope quietly builds resilience. We must let it sing, even when we do not know the words, and we must create a space for it to live, for it bears good news, even when it does not know the news it has to share.
Hope isn’t “knowing exactly what good will come” but it is believing with every cell in your body that SOME GOOD WILL COME.
In one of my darkest nights of the soul, as grief stretched and pounded at my heart, I found myself longing for the cover of darkness. It was in the still, quiet night that hope became clearest—a faint light that felt truer for its contrast to the shadows. Each night I would come home and wait for night to fall. Because once it was dark, I could see the light better. I used twinkle lights around my tiny apartment, and let them remind me, that there was good coming. I didn’t know when, I didn’t know how, but I knew that the Divine would not abandon me, even though it felt like I was miles from shore. It was there I could see the lighthouse of Hope.
So this week, may you rest in the knowing that Hope Knows. It knows that there will be light, and you can trust it too. If you want to examine hope a little further, I appreciate these prompts:
When or where does it feel darkest for you right now? What does Hope know that your fear may not?
Who is a Hope Dealer in your life? Who trusts Hope so fully that you can lean on their belief for a while?
Imagine hope as a seed planted in the soil of this dark season. What does it need from you to grow? What practices, thoughts, or connections can nurture it and help it bloom in the light to come?
And simply: What do you hope for?
Hope is the quiet assurance that light is coming, even when the darkness feels endless. It whispers that you are held, even when you feel untethered. This week, as you rest in hope, may you trust that it will guide you, gently and surely, toward peace.
Next week, we’ll explore Peace. As this week turns and Sunday arrives, may the hope you’re tending begin to root itself in peace. Let it rest, not as an ending, but as a gentle exhale, trusting that the light is coming.
Should you find yourself loved by someone who adores the now you, the past you, and the future you, don’t let them go. Those are the friends to grow with. Thank you for being “a living invitation to becoming",” Brooke.
You can observe Advent in any way that feels right for you. You may choose to use a beautiful advent wreath, create your own, or, as I do, gather 4 candles and keep them accessible this month.