My prayer for Advent this year emerged out of an evening retreat, given by a colleague at the retreat centre where I work: “Jesus, move in me.” I have been reflecting a lot this fall on the difference between what I strive for and what God does in me. The distinction is vital. My inclination (fueled by the world we live in) is to work harder, perform better, do more. As I moved slowly through Advent, I was captivated by the way that Love changes us, and how different that is from performance improvement.

In the spring, I sat beside a hospital bed, holding onto the hand of my grandfather, just before he was moved into palliative care. The sacred space that emerges as a loved one lives into their dying is a miracle to me. Sitting with Grandpa brought back so many memories of a life lived near him: sleepovers and gatherings with cousins, his homemade fried potato chips, shared tears of both joy and loss. I have been deeply shaped by his love and by loving him, over four decades. 

This fall, I met up with three girlfriends for an overnight getaway. These women are all new friends to me, relationships that are still fresh and surprising in lots of ways. The conversations are rich and involve more difference and questioning than some of my longer friendships. Because I have come to love these women, their perspectives matter to me. I am changed by the wisdom of their experiences, held by the curiosity and generosity of their questions, moved by the ways they see.

Advertisement

Marc and I traveled to Seattle in November, a speaking trip plus vacation. We hiked through Washington state forest and an inner-city waterfall park. We talked and were quiet. We explored, and we caught up on much needed sleep. After 20 years of marriage, we are different people than we expected to be. It was good to be reminded how much we like each other – as well as all the ways that we have chosen to grow together when it might have been easier to grow apart.

These moments touch something of the way that love changes us. Love is not an algorithm or a pattern. It does not follow a roadmap or strategic plan. It moves in slowly and quietly and captures a piece of our heart. When Jesus arrives at Christmas, he comes as Love, wandering in and through the moments that make up our lives. This love waits when we forget to call, speak a harsh word, get distracted. This love invites and welcomes the truest and most beautiful parts of ourselves.

Advertisement

I have been repeating this prayer, “Jesus, move in me,” and it brought me back to the hours and days I spent pregnant, waiting to feel each of my babies moving. The first flutters and the gentle rolling, the hands pressing on my belly and the uncomfortable kicks. I wasn’t in control of these movements, but I was physically and spiritually moved by them. 

The Church year begins with waiting and welcoming just before the calendar rings in the new year with resolutions and intentions for change. But what if our growth is meant to be held reverently in Love? What if we are meant to be moved and shaped by relationships and care, rather than by external measures of insufficiency? 

Jesus has arrived with another Christmas, a ritual reminder that He has never once left, that He is seeking us out with great love, longing to simply be with us. And this is the thing that has made the most significant difference in my life – to be accompanied by unconditional love. The Love of God, of family, of friends and neighbours, of strangers. 

Advertisement

Love gives me the safety I need to see my weakness and blind spots. It is strong enough to hold my vulnerability and gives me courage to face necessary change without punishment. Love has the capacity to endure the challenges that come with interrupting my comfort and justification.

And so, this Advent prayer moved with me through Christmas and into ordinary time. Jesus, keep moving in me. Fill me with wonder at where you are going. I want to go with you.