Third Tuesday of Advent – Joy in the glorious, the ordinary and the dry. By Idelette McVicker

This afternoon’s reflection comes from Idelette McVicker.  Idelette was born and raised in South Africa, which shaped a deep longing in her for justice, freedom and equality. She worked as a journalist in Taipei, before moving to Vancouver, Canada to marry Scott. She recently founded http://shelovesmagazine.com, blogs at http://idelette.com, writes regular contributions for http://ThoughtsaboutGod.com and tweets @idelette. But, honestly, at the moment she spends most of her days driving, running and sometimes dancing with her three children, aged 7, 5 and 3.

My Advent journey is focused around a single word this year: Joy. Yep, I’ve said it, sung it, read it and celebrated it. But I have never inspected it closely, never allowed the meaning of joy to pierce me intimately. This word seems so ordinary and yet, as I have been sniffing it, swirling it, circling it and holding it close up to my ear, I am noticing its powers to transform ordinary moments into the holy, the sacred.

It’s a word that invites Jesus close. In fact, I am noticing that Jesus likes to linger on the wings of my joy.

The quest started with a simple daily prayer I learned from a friend’s kindergartener who learned it from her teacher:

Lord, when did I bring You the most joy today?

I think about the question—and this Joy, this moment of deep happiness, fulfillment, awakening, gratitude, Love—around which the question evolves as I drive the minivan to and fro, to and fro, drop off, pick up. As I negotiate peace between a seven-year-old and a five-year-old before 7am. As I place laundry in the front-loader. Pick up the three-year-old’s wood blocks and metal cars. As I sit on a small plastic stool to do homework. Wrap a piece of cold meat around a pickle and slip in a toothpick for a kindergartener’s lunch.

Often joy seems distant, on faraway fields in different, quieter, seemingly more gratifying places.

The days speed by faster than I want them to. Many times I drive faster than I should.

But this question—a prayerful pause in my andante day—reminds me that, just like now, Jesus was born into a big, noisy historical moment. Families and individuals rushed to the place of their birth to be counted. The #census covered front pages, opinion pages and business pages.

Hotels were full, streets bustling. Lives busy.

Who? A Saviour? A Messiah? Joy to the world? Yes, in the midst of the noise, there’s a pause.

Come, Lord Jesus, come.

Heaven’s own headlines pierced the noise and announced the day to those who were awake. Fireworks of heaven confirmed the birth. Angels sang, Joy to the World on distant shepherd fields.

I learn: Joy is born into my ordinary day as I invite the Holy into possibly mundane moments. Joy to the world comes as I am ready, mindful, awake.

So I wake up before little feet scurry down for their first cup of milk. I sit and open up my heart and my life to the Word, to be birthed into these quiet, holy minutes. Into still, sane moments of the day when the rest of my house is asleep. I have to plan for it, prepare for it, set my alarm, wake up for it, fight for it.

Come, Lord Jesus, come.

Morning after morning, as I overcome my own slumbering body, Jesus sits with me. He wakes up the Life in me. I draw near. I sense the deep Joy. And Emmanuel, birthed into my ordinary human soul, sits oh so very close.

I drive home from school—the first drop-offs of the day completed. I pull over on a whim and buy a cup of organic coffee from a third-generation roaster on the side of a highway. For five years I’ve driven past and never stopped. Today I open my heart wide to the enthusiasm and spirit he’s brewed into every cup. I hold the warm sleeve close and I sit in my car, taking a moment to enjoy. It tastes dark, rich and strong. I linger a while longer to simply enjoy and I smile.

Jesus smiles next to me on the seat. He rides on the waves of my deep joy. Already close.

Joy in the Dry Places

But there are desert places in my heart too. Grumpy places. Dusty places. Frantic places. Disappointed places. Hopes I’d had. Failing places. Falling places. Broken places.

I remember: Come, Lord Jesus, come.

So I invite the Holy to the distant shepherd fields of my own heart. Places where my eyes are cold, not soft. In those very places, this Advent, I am quietly beckoning, believing:

Come, Lord Jesus, come.

Idelette McVicker bio:

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