As the finality of 2020 begins to come into focus, I have been fixating on thresholds; the boundaries that help us to define one thing from another. On some level, I think we are all fixating on the need to step over this particular pandemic threshold and into whatever comes after it. As it happens when a mind begins to pay attention, I have been finding thresholds in all sorts of unexpected places. I learned this week that thresholds were originally affixed to doorways to keep thresh (hay) inside of homes which prevented folks from slipping on the cold, wet ground in their houses circa 1500. 

What began as a practical solution has become a part of our everyday vernacular in naming the beginning of one thing, distinguished from the phase that comes in front and behind it, before or after.

Consider the significance of these distinct thresholds, the physical and imaginary lines drawn between two experiences:

-The doorway that separates one’s home from the outside world. This threshold divides cold from warmth and anonymity from familiarity. The practice of carrying brides over the threshold of their homes has served as a marker signaling the change from single to married life. Many bless the lintels of their homes each Epiphany to offer blessings upon all who pass beneath. On my college campus, the doors were tremendously tall, conveying St. Benedict’s belief that every door we open marks an important decision.

-The threshold of seasons: The intensity of fall doing its best to usher in the cold and wind on the heels of summer, only to relent and give way to ice, snow, and shortened days.

-My daughters and I recently re-visited the movie Little Women and Jo March described “Stepping over the threshold of childhood into all that lied beyond” as she moved to New York City. 

-The transition of a laboring woman that signals the waves of physical and mental preparation are making a sharp turn toward the action of delivery.

In my former doula days, watching for a woman’s transition was an important shift to observe in her labor experience. It is the moment when a woman’s physical body moves from a place of preparation for delivery to the mission of delivering the child from within her. It is powerful both to watch and to experience. To bear witness to this process is to step onto holy ground and observe an intensely focused force, to step over the threshold of preparation boldly into active participation in bringing a child earth-side.

This year I found an artistic depiction of a laboring woman as a metaphor for Advent. Maybe you have seen it circulating, too? It is an image that I have not considered before, and yet it is completely appropriate. It has garnered a wildly enthusiastic response. Be on the lookout.

–Liturgical seasons too provide threshold that move us (in this case) from the high highs of the Feast of Christ the King, to the quiet preparations of the unexpected and humble work that happened as the infant Jesus grew in Mary’s womb. From here we step out of preparation and into the wild celebration of God made flesh.

In this way, the season of Advent is its own threshold: Invisibly marking distinct space and time between the ordinary and the feast of Christmas. A time set apart for joy and anticipation.

The stuckness of in-between

Over dinner this week my oldest proclaimed that she loves Advent… “except for the waiting part.” We laughed at the unintentional paradox that she so honestly named. All of this is fitting: The slight discomfort of being on the way, in the liminal space of journeying and becoming. In 2020, we need what Advent has to offer in new ways. We need its peace, and we sure could use its joy.

I suspect that this is exactly where our struggles to engage Advent this year are stemming from. In this year where everything blurs together: Home/work, work/school, weekdays/weekends, we are at a loss to identify landmarks in this in-between place. Never have we been more hard-pressed to define what we are or are not about at any given time because it feels simultaneously like everything and nothing and there is no clear end in sight. We may not enjoy the view from here, but I wonder if pandemic Advent isn’t an apt experience of the journey? Feeling the eagerness of hope while quieting the voice in the back of our minds that wonders if maybe we missed something significant?

The wise men must have recognized this experience of traversing on a hunch. The Apostles clinging to hope after the crucifixion must have known this uncomfortable place. Jonah, or any individual invited to announce Jesus with their lives, recognizes this experience of being led onward in unfamiliar territory, with hope and a trembling voice.

Crossing thresholds is prophetic and costs something

Aside from the threshold of our homes (and tempers?) which we criss-cross daily, thresholds of every other nature are stepped over only once. We do not go back to our childhood in the same way we once experienced it, just like the way we engage this particular Advent will be different than every other Advent we ever have or ever will experience. 

Of course, we can cross thresholds without paying attention: Fall to winter, preparation to transition; the ebb and flow of daily life will bring us across threshold whether or not we are attentive. This kind of mindful threshold crossing might feel as though it requires the same laser focus as being broken open in labor—which can feel daunting. And, it is the heart of the matter, isn’t it? Allowing ourselves to be softened enough to respond to the nudges and pangs of the Spirit is what prepares us for transformation to occur and for the Christ child to be born in our lives, too.

To threshold crossings, bringing to birth, and staying awake-

Happy Adventing.

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Ever Faithful One, bringer of Light. The week is beginning whether or not I am ready. 

As the days unfurl, I am asking for many things: Peace. Patience. Perspective.

I believe that it is You upon whom the future rests. Would that my life and love model this trust– let this peace settle deep within me.

When I am troubled by the things before me. I ask you to provide the ‘long view’ so as to be patient with all that is incomplete and imperfect–around me and within me.

Attune my vision and awareness to the beauty and gifts already within reach. Guide me to seek out these reminders as much in times of trial as in times of joy.

Move in me so I cannot become complacent.

Grant me the perspective to recognize even the faintest light that I might see, if even in the dark.

Amen

Katie Cassady

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Silently, they peered from the south-facing front yard.
I saw them peeking over cars.
Reverent, beautiful, cold.
 
Sisters, swinging wildly through the mid-winter air, late afternoon shadows, cast long and blue.
Giggling, shrieking, oblivious to all but one another.
 
Taking in the scene before them,
I looked again--
What are they seeing?
 
And there it was—
Joy embodied,
Announcing with their love for one another:
God is with Us!
 
And the angels smiled on.

This morning I read:

A gathering of angels is a clear and unmistakable sign of God’s presence and his favor…The Gospels tell the Christmas story in historical terms. The book of Revelation tells it in symbols. But neither the Gospels nor the Apocalypse can tell the story truthfully without angels. It is angels who sing Gloria. It is angels who announce the joy.

 Joy to the World: How Christ’s Coming Changed Everything (and still does), Scott Hahn.

Perhaps it makes sense that I noticed the antique, plastic, pair of angels that has graced this front yard for many Christmases; their precise arrangement, a perfect vantage point for watching shenanigans at the park. Two days before Christmas I caught a glimpse of what the angels came to announce, what they have been telling us all of Advent—God is with us.

God is with us in plain sight.

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I am listening.I am watching.
I am dizzy over the peace you describe.
Wolves guests of the lamb? No harm or ruin on your holy mountain?A rescue for the poor?Lives saved?
I am listening.I am watching.
Strengthen me to hear your voice,that I might be animated by your Spirit. That  when the words and work before me feel futile, you would speak to me again of the vision you have spoken to my heart today. 
I am listening.I am watching.
Come Lord Jesus.

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Gracious God,

You know this heart–its impatience, imperfections and tenderness.

You hear the cries of those who are without–whose circumstances won’t afford the luxury of joyful anticipation.

In the midst of all of this, we celebrate joy!

The truth that I have learned and re-learned–is that I see the most joy in those who have only you.

Without romanticizing real need, help me to find my footing in this in-between place of having…and not having.

Remind me while I wait, that you are already here.

Make tangible for me your movement here and now that I might see and feel and hear your presence with me even as I wait. Enliven this heart with creativity, urgency and joy to recognize and celebrate the ways you are with us, and to prepare you a place in forgotten corners.

I pray when you come, you might find me dancing, pausing to notice that the long wait is over and that the celebration continues. Amen.

Katie Cassady

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A prayer in Advent

Christ of my heart, I can feel your nearness.

I want so badly to touch you and feel you with me.

I hear stories of violence, war and voices calling out to the love they know is You and I imagine your heart pulled toward these calls--reaching out to touch them, too.

I am waiting for you to enter again and to defy all sense of reason by that arrival.

I am not so naive as to believe the first Christmas healed divisions, made peace and clarified who you were to be, immediately--only that I crave the nearness of Emmanuel--God with us & Word made flesh.

It is with trepidation that I ask, because Your birth is both liberating and binding.

Liberating as you name our lives  'holy ground'--worthy of your presence; binding because of the work you began, continues with the work of our hands and hearts.

I pray that this final week of Advent prepares my heart for the bold hope of nearness, paired with stamina to continue to hunger amidst the feasting for the world that you would give us.
 
Amen

Katie Cassady, Unexpected Honey

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Light of the nations. You are my hope. I come to you in the darkness–morning and night–looking to the One who out of love, became human.

I am seeking signs of Your light.

With a single candle lit, I will wait. Watching in unlikely places for movement,that my heart, too, might be moved. Moved from places of blindness to sight,corners of isolation to a willing embrace stubborn complacency to willing participation and selfish fears to selfless joy.

Rouse me from my sleepy habits and awaken me to the excitement of your arrival. May I never cease watching for your humble and promised entrance into my life.

A men

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Generous and loving God

I praise you for the gift of rest offered.

May I embrace the treasure of an unhurried day

A day that unfolds peacefully.

That I might accept it for exactly what it is

exactly what I need; 

a gift offered.

Lord you are the Giver of All Good gifts

I pray that you find me with hands open that I might heed the invitation

and welcome it

savor it-

and every possibility that  it brings. Amen.

Katie Cassady

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A prayer for approaching Triduum:

This is where it seems to hinge, my resolve is weak.

The season of sparsity has drug on.

The voices in my head and the voices of the past, quiver,'Why have you abandoned me?'

Feelings of loneliness and doubt linger reminders of brokenness, abound.

Trudging toward Triduum I join the Body of Believers in this solemn walk reminding myself, again, that in death I am born to eternal life.

Entering into the mystery grasping at the tactile, earthen bits of our story--faded palms, feet in water, gnarled wood, thorns, incense, sand, silence.

Ushering in with great relief--light, colors, Baptismal waters, gleaming white garments, blooming flowers--life where life had ceased to flourish.

My pace quickens my heart is eager to enter in.

Amen.

Katie Cassady, Unexpected Honey

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A prayer for growth:

Cultivating God, I notice you in the strangest places--

early blooms, a crowded classroom,silence where I seek familiarity
memories of loss and hope for growth.

God, make me like a seed
that when pushed into the dark, my response is to slough off 
all you cannot use,
and grow.

Amen

Katie Cassady, Unexpected Honey

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