Sweat dampened the back of my shirt as I held up the upper branches of our very fake, very plastic Christmas tree while my husband tightened the brackets holding the lower branches, which were quite droopy. “Think we can swing one more year out of it?” I ask. “Maybe after Christmas is the time to look around for a new one,” my husband replies. Our children press in close around us, ever eager to begin the “fluffing” of the tree, commencing our Christmas decorating.

I mentally sighed. That my children find “fluffling” the tree fun ever so slightly offends my soul. I grew up in the woods in Wisconsin; never did I fluff our family Christmas trees. Also never were our trees very fake and very plastic. Also never did I sweat while helping to set it up in December. Things truly were different for me, growing up in the Northern Hemisphere, in the Northern United States, than for my children, who are growing up almost as far south on the African continent as one could go.

Even with our Advent playlist of subdued, whimsical tunes in the background, and my evergreen scented candle lit, even with the thrill in my children’s faces and voices, my heart hung heavy in my chest. I was just not feeling it. For most of my life, Advent has been my most favorite time of year. That descending darkness like a drape, the growing cold and hushed snows, silencing the rustle of leaves and life and thoughts. The twinkle of light, the scent of tree and spice, the warmth of fire, the glow of candles… the lingering promise that Light is coming, that Peace is coming.

Intellectually, I know that all that is true in this season in not geographically bound. And I would like to think that I can rise above the cultural trappings of the season to enjoy its beauty, regardless of where I find myself. Nevermind that all of my resources, lovely, poignant devotionals and picture books and story books likewise depict warm, glowing lights against a backdrop of snow, light entering through the grip of darkness. How can I sink into this season when the sun is rising at 4:45am and temps are reaching into the 90s F every week?

By evening, all of our decorating is finished. Truly, our home feels festive. The moods of my children, and even my husband, match that of the room. My daughter attempts to put into words the thrill of waking in the morning and cozily sitting by the light of the Christmas tree, but she’s struggling to articulate just how lovely and beautiful it is. “Is this what heaven is going to be like, Mom? Too wonderful to describe?” My heart rises a bit. Yes, my girl, yes that’s just it.

The shadows of evening fall across our yard, our home. Now our lights really twinkle, the beauty of what we have created contrasted with the dark outside. I ponder the shadow over my heart, one that has lingered since walking through the valley of death not all that long ago. This, too, weighs heavily. I miss my family.

I will meet you here, he whispers to me, in the darkness and heaviness of your heart. This is not too much for him, I know. Perhaps there is beauty in entering into this season with a heavy heart, with a lingering sense of loss and hesitant embrace of joy. I find that I am waiting with anticipation for light to flood, not my home or my physical world, but my darkened heart. I look at the childlike wonder on my daughters’ faces, the unlimited joy flowing from their young souls, and feel they have infused some into my own.

Gratefully, I look around at the years of tradition and liturgy that we have built into this season for our family. I know the way to walk, I know this familiar path, though I may be taking steps more slowly this year. I know who is coming, I know who will make a way. And I’m here, waiting for Him.