My heart is barely limping through the advent season this year. I’m smiling and continuing our annual traditions but it feels a little hollow and my heart is a lot weary. We’ve been quarantined for 9 1/2 months. We have not been inside with anyone but the five of us this entire time. We have not done any of our normal things or celebrated in any of our normal ways. And the weight of all the changes, all the unknowns, all the loneliness has taken the sparkle out of my heart this December. And in the midst of this Christmas desert in my heart, I realized that God has gently and persistently drawn me to Him. I realized that a lot of my normal advent “sparkle” comes from walking through Christmas decorated stores, planning matching family outfits, and zipping through a busy December of events. And sometimes, in the hustle and bustle, it’s easy to confuse the hushed anticipation of advent with the outward sparkle and glitter all around. (Which I love all of these things!)

And this year, with my normal stripped bare, my heart is stripped bare too. And it’s been in this darkness, this lonely December, that the coming birth of Christ has been more real to me than any other year. Jesus didn’t come amidst a bright sparkling backdrop, with parties and celebrations all around; Jesus came to a world full of quiet longing, desperate people longing for God’s presence again. Silence for hundreds of years. And then, in the middle of a night, birthed by a travel weary Mary, in a forgotten stable, in a crowded but lonely town, a sweet, little baby was born. This humble birth didn’t match the Savior people whispered of or the Messiah angels proclaimed; it didn’t match the name of the King of Kings and Lord of lords. And yet, there He was. In the arms of an incredulous mama, in awe that Emmanuel was wrapped in her arms; a mama who said yes when her heart was full of doubts and unknowns. A mama who sang my soul magnifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my savior in the midst of heavy quietness. A mama who trusted in the whispered Promise when the world around her was bleak and weary.

This December, my heart feels the weight of the unknowing Israelites, my heart holds the uncertainties of Mary, the weariness of Joseph. And somewhere in my heart, I feel God pressing Mary’s song as a praise on my lips. That in the midst of my quiet December, in the midst of my loneliness and longing, I can look towards the manger and sing. Because even in this hardest of December’s, He has been my Emmanuel, never leaving me but oh so sweetly drawing me nearer. He has been my Prince of Peace, quieting my fears with His faithfulness. He has been my Light, a slow burning fire of Hope in a year of loss. He has been my Redeemer, weaving the broken parts of my year into His story for me.

And so this December, with tears on my cheeks and a catch in my voice, I’m joining in Mary’s song. Because this year, I feel my need for the baby in the manger more than any other. This year, I know how quiet of a night He came into. I feel that heavy quietness in my heart. This year, in place of advent anticipation, I feel advent longing. This year, more than any other, the promise in the manger held true. He doesn’t just come in to sparkly, bright places; He comes into the middle-of-the-night places. He comes into the places desperate for His presence. This year, I might not be singing on a platform in a candlelight service, but my song feels even sweeter. Because this year, I know Mary’s song as my own and my spirit rejoices in my Savior.