Advent season is a fast before the feast of Christmas. In 2023, for perhaps the first time, the "fasting" nature of Advent has become more real for us. A season to humbly acknowledge all that is wrong in the world and in us, to take stock of the darkness where we wait for the light.
A few nights ago in the deep dark part of the post-midnight hours of a waning moon, our dog Lindi started barking quite emphatically. For better or for worse, my waking thought was that we had accidentally left her outside (she usually sleeps in our front room) and therefore she was agitated by her exclusion or awakened by people on the road. I felt a bit annoyed with the interruption to sleep, but she so rarely barks at all I forgave her in my heart and when she stopped, went back to sleep. In spite of the fact that we live near a tenuously secure border and on the urbanizing edge of a growing town, it didn't even occur to me that something might really be amiss.
When morning came, it turned out she had spent the night in the front room as usual, but she had good reason to try to get out. Our big car gate was pushed open and we found our car parked in it's carport with the rear side window smashed. Some money we had left in the console was missing. Oh. Thieves. Perhaps they tried locked containers and looked for anything portable to remove, and finding none, took a piece of rebar from the workbench and broke into the car.
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That morning two different neighbours told me about goats stolen that night, in one case the young man woke up to blood in the front room of the house because the thief had slaughtered the goats there (for silence?) and in the other, goats tied to stakes disappeared. The day before this happened I had read this written by a friend in Nairobi, the gist being that when you work for justice, you might find yourself scared by the same wounds that your community suffers. We foreign workers have way more social safety net, but are nevertheless not immune to trouble.
The night-time break-in was a concrete, small, visible point of loss.. . . in the context of the last month where we discovered a pattern of much more significant loss due to corrupt bookkeeping, borrowing mission funds for personal use by someone we trusted. We are both sad and weary, reeling from the implications and working hours and hours of extra time to recover. And of course we can all look around us, including in the mirror, for constant evidence that this world is not OK. This morning we saw a friend's relative with advanced infection into bone needing transfer for specialised surgery, then were visited by a nearly blind young man needing help to get to a follow-up, then an older man who was hungry, a mom feeling desperate about her kids' schooling, a young couple trying to burn bricks to build a home. In 2023, our local community mirrors the desperation of the whole world, with wars in Ukraine and Israel/Gaza and dozens of less-reported places like Sudan. Our friend's article begins with this quote:
“We live out our call most fully when we are a community of faith with arms wrapped about a community of pain.” — John M. Perkins
We want our faith walk to be a twinkling Advent of spiced cider, warm cookies, and beautiful lights. But the light comes to shine in the darkness. Advent season takes a realistic and sober look at the darkness in and around all of us, the very hard places we live, and chooses to hope. To look for that small star that beckons us on towards a future that shines in glory, even though the current story feels heavy.
So we keep on keeping on. The rainiest rainy season continues, the power flickers in and out, we miss our moms and kids, and wonder what God is doing in the pain around us. But tomorrow we'll light a second candle and read more truth and affirm that the light is coming.
First we find the broken window . .
Then we take the vehicle to our trusted long-time rescuer Atwoki in Fort Portal
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