On the final Saturday of the liturgical year, just before Ordinary Time gives way to Advent, I sit in the chair by the window and watch the last few leaves on our neighbor’s elm tree tremble in the wind as the sun dips behind the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains. I breathe a relieved exhale. Even the dusky purple of the evening sky heralds the arrival of the season of Advent, the liturgical calendar catching up to the groan that has echoed in my heart in a wearying year: “Come, Lord Jesus.”
Wrapped in a shawl against the late November chill, I pad down our creaky stairs toward the dining room, lighting the lamps as I go. As I have done on the eve of a decade’s-worth of Advents, I gather the candle sticks with rivulets of white wax dried to the sides and pooling at the base, whispering a prayer of thanks for the many minutes of conversation and connection held in their warm glow. I remove the bowl of pears from the center of the table and the copper platter of the leaf treasures my four children have collected over these crisp, cool fall days. I carefully fold the festive table runner, careful to trap the many remaining crumbs from snacks and feasts.
I remove the white tapers burned down to stubs and scrape away the remaining wax. I replace them with fresh candles in a deep plum hue, trimming the wicks in preparation for the morning meal. I smooth a purple runner down the center of the table and arrange the candle sticks along the length of it. In the center, I place our Advent wreath, candles testifying to the persistence of hope, peace, joy, and love, and the sure presence of Christ in our waiting and longing.
Once the table is set, I take down the frame that hangs on the wall next to our hutch. I remove the painting with its bright green and yellow strokes, a reminder of Ordinary Time’s testimony of God’s faithful work to bring life and growth in and through His Church. In its place, I insert a print of one of my most beloved paintings. In the painting are two women standing in a garden. One woman, with long tresses covering her nakedness and shame, an apple clutched in her hand, and a snake coiled around her ankles, blushes with downcast face. She barely dares to lift her eyes toward her outstretched hand, which is grasped by a young woman with a gentle smile. This woman reaches to lift the face of the deceived one, resting their joined hands on her pregnant belly as her heel crushes the head of the snake.[1]
Here Mary, the Theotokos—the “God-Bearer”—and Eve, the Mother of All Living, are caught up together at the turning point of the history of the cosmos, both women witnessing the fulfillment of the prophets and the words that God spoke to the serpent in the Garden:
“I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your offspring and her offspring; he shall bruise your head, and you shall bruise his heel” (Genesis 3.15 ESV).
They are both held in the anticipation of the arrival of the Promised One, “the true light … coming into the world,” and “from His fullness … receiv[ing], grace upon grace” (John 1.9, 16 ESV).
As I take in this image anew each year, I listen for Eve’s invitation to join her in receiving hope among the shattered pieces of hearts that have loved the serpent’s lie and of life in a world that is not as it should be. We are freed from the coverings of our own making meant to hide ourselves from God and others, and given a Covering that lifts our heads, makes us new, and gives us a place to belong: the blood of Jesus Christ the Righteous. Mary grasps my extended hand too, reminding me of the astounding truth that the Divine has united itself to the lowly, that “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1.14 ESV). In Mary we are invited to—Inconceivably! Gloriously!—receive, participate in, and be filled with the life of God, a kind of with-ness that only grows more wondrous though we revisit it at this time, year after year.
Though this painting depicts the first coming of the Incarnate Christ that we celebrate with the 12 days of feasting during Christmastide, the image of Mary carrying the Son of God in her womb is a perfect picture of the “already but not yet” reality that we contemplate during Advent. In these weeks, we together give full expression to our longing for Christ to return, put Death to death, and make all things new as He once again makes His dwelling place with man (Revelation 21.3). We humbly ask with one voice for God to
“Be folded with us into time and place,
Unfold for us the mystery of grace,
And make a womb of all this wounded world.”[2]
I breathe another relieved exhale. He has come. He will come. He is coming into my weary, tender days even now. As I make room in our home for this season of longing, the Spirit is carving out room in my heart for the presence of Christ. I place the frame back in its place on our wall and feel a thrill of renewed hope that with these two Mothers I will “[behold] His glory, full of grace and truth” (John 1.14 KJV), right here in the waiting.
Editor’s note: The English Standard Version translation does not capitalize pronouns referring to God; these have been added by Cultivating editors.
[1] Mary Consoles Eve, by Sister Grace Remington, OSCO. Available from Our Lady of the Mississippi Abbey, Dubuque, Iowa.
[2] “O Emmanuel,” by Malcolm Guite, from his collection Sounding the Seasons.
The featured image, “Christmas Roses,” is courtesy of Lancia E. Smith and used with her glad permission for Cultivating.
Danielle Mellema is a contributing writer for Cultivating Magazine and occasional guest host on the Anselm Society’s Believe to See podcast. She writes about welcoming the kingdom of God in our everyday lives and experiencing the presence of the risen Christ in the cracks and crevices of our days.
She lives in a quirky 120-year-old Victorian house in Colorado Springs, CO, with her husband, four young children, and mini Aussie Scout. She loves reading and talking about books, exploring her wonderful and weird neighborhood, long conversations on her front porch, and recommending just the right local restaurant to friends (and strangers who did not ask). She is endlessly grateful for the privilege of receiving and releasing the gospel that heals alongside the wonderful people of International Anglican Church, where she serves as churchwarden.
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