Ah, shoot!

 The priest at our church began his sermon by announcing, “Joy takes center stage on this Third Sunday of Advent.” In the liturgical calendar, today is known as Gaudete Sunday—from the Latin word meaning rejoice. In Anglican traditions, he pointed out, it is also known as Stir-Up Sunday, named for the familiar prayer: “Stir up your power in us, O God.”

There’s a bit of irony here, because I have just returned from a particularly joyful weekend at my youngest sister’s home in the Berkshires. This is an annual gathering for the six of us siblings and our spouses. Paula and her husband, Ken, are both gifted in their capacity to whip up joy, and together with my siblings and their partners, we had a wonderful time.

The food was notable. On Friday night, Paula’s fennel, radish, and apple salad perfectly complemented Ken’s exquisite salmon and risotto. Saturday brought Jim’s delicious lasagnas—one bolognese, one vegetarian—and, judging by the appreciative sounds as we chowed down, they were legendary comfort food for a cold winter night. Beyond the meals, though, what stood out most was the fun. One of the things I love about being with my family is how easily we laugh. 

At the beginning of Advent, though, I wasn’t sure where joy was. I was knee-deep in professional work with couples, listening closely to the longing for love and the many obstacles that get in the way of connection. It’s not unusual for people to arrive feeling lost or hopeless and that’s hard. Around that time, I found myself returning to an advent image from Isaiah—the one about a shoot growing from the stump of Jesse. I’ve gardened enough to know the unease of cutting back even a healthy plant. Life, with all its demands and losses, can often feel like pruning.

My sibling relationships put me in mind of what I might call stump-level love—a special kind of intimacy. We lived through the childhood family circus, shared the love and long arc of our parents’ lives; experienced the challenges of losing them and survived. We are all past 70 and though we may still recall the irritations of old roles, thankfully, they no longer shape how we are together. Instead, we seem to have re-oriented around a quiet fullness and a trust in love itself—something we hold more easily these days.

My father loved working with his hands, and in later life he spent hours carving wise sayings into wood. One of his most familiar signs read: Perfect love will make it a joy. There was a time when, for me, the word perfect conjured images of flawlessness. I hear it differently now. Experience has taught me that love does not prevent loss or protect us from disappointment or the gritty realities of life together. Now, perfection in love—like the shoot that springs from a sorry-looking stump—feels like love that grows dependably, as promised, even after life has had its way.

Ah, for the patience and experience needed to trust the wisdom of pruning—and for the joy of seeing our love still growing.