When Hope Feels Like Oxygen
I don’t think I realized how much my heart, soul, and mind would need to slow down and truly encounter the hope of God in Advent this year.
It feels strange to say that out loud. A lot of people who know me would probably tilt their heads and say, “Really? You seem to be doing great.” I am very good at lists, leadership, and showing up. From the outside, it can look like I have it all together.
But entering Advent this year has felt like breaking the surface of the water after being under too long.
Suddenly, I can breathe again. Oxygen is hitting places in me I didn’t know were starved. I didn’t even realize how much I’d been holding my breath.
Grief is so complicated right now. What people see is far from what reality is, and honestly, that’s probably true for all of us. No family is perfect. No one person has it all together. We’re just varying degrees of “functional” while we carry heartbreak, longing, questions, and stories that don’t fit in pretty Christmas cards.
Advent has arrived like a hand on my shoulder, gently saying, “Hey. Come up for air.”
I Didn’t Know I Was Drowning
When life is full: ministry, work, school, caregiving, holidays, you can swim on autopilot for a long time. You keep moving. You keep answering emails, planning events, checking in on people, making sure the wheels don’t come off anywhere.
Meanwhile, your soul is quietly sinking deeper and deeper under the surface.
That’s been me this year. I’ve been functioning, serving, leading, loving…and also grieving as well as reckoning with lots of childhood issues and a new ADHD diagnosis. Some days it’s loud, some days it’s numb, some days it’s tangled with guilt and anger and resentment and confusion. There’s a version of me that people see, and then there’s the me who sits in the car and cries in silence or lingers in the restroom as I wait for the tears to stop and my breathing to regulate, before walking into a room with a big smile.
Maybe you know that version of you, too.
Advent, in this quiet, almost stubborn way, refuses to pretend everything is fine. It meets us in the ache and the in-between. It says, “We don’t have to rush right in to ‘Merry & Bright.’ We can be honest about the darkness and look for the coming light.”
I’ve been slowly working through (for the 3rd year in a row) Shadow and Light: A Journey into Advent by Tsh Oxenreider. One line continues to echo in my mind:
“Advent acknowledges shadows and dims them with burgeoning light… This is the hope of Advent.”
That feels like what my heart is trying to learn: hope doesn’t deny the dark. It shines into it.
The First Candle: Hope in the Dark
Traditionally, the first Advent candle is the candle of hope. It’s a small thing, really; just one purple candle in a wreath. But lighting the candle, understanding what it represents, is a big act of faith.
The world feels dark in a hundred directions right now. Our personal worlds feel dark in their own ways, too: empty chairs at the table, medical reports, broken relationships, mental health struggles, stories that didn’t turn out the way we begged God for.
And into that, Advent hands us a match and a promise.
“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light.” (Isaiah 9:2)
Hope in Scripture isn’t a ‘tra-la-la’ optimism or “fingers crossed” spirituality. It’s a person. Jesus is the light who comes to us IN the dark, not after we’ve cleaned ourselves up and fixed our circumstances. He chooses us, and our messiness. He steps into the dark with us – and when he is there, the Light, His Light, brings hope.
Paul calls God “the God of hope” and prays,
“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him.” (Romans 15:13)
Do you see that? Joy and peace don’t come from us muscling our way into cheerfulness, shoving our feelings down to our toes, and pulling up our big girl/boy pants. They come as we trust the God who already holds the end of the story.
Hope is oxygen. Not because everything is suddenly easy, but because we remember:
This moment is not the whole story.
This valley is not the whole landscape.
This chapter of grief is not the final page.
Hope That Sits with Us in the Mess
If I’m honest, part of me wants hope to be a magic wand: wave it over my life and poof—no more sorrow, no more untangling false narratives that have shaped me from toddlerhood, no more complicated family dynamics, no more missing people who should still be here.
But Advent hope is different. It’s sturdier and more honest than that.
It’s the God who comes as a baby into a real, messy family, in a real, occupied country, in a real feeding trough. It’s the God who isn’t embarrassed by our grief or our confusion or the ways our lives don’t look like we planned.
In Lamentations, Jeremiah, sitting in the ruins of Jerusalem, says:
“Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his mercies never end; they are new every morning.” (Lamentations 3:21–23, my paraphrase)
That doesn’t sound like someone whose circumstances have magically improved. It sounds like someone who has looked around at the wreckage and then slowly, stubbornly turned their eyes toward the character of God.
Maybe that’s the invitation of Advent hope this year: Not, “Pretend everything is fine,” but, “Look again at who God is, right in the middle of what isn’t fine.”
What People Don’t See
I keep thinking about how much we don’t know about each other.
The family that looks so “together” on Sunday might be barely speaking in the car.
The coworker who’s always upbeat might be battling anxiety or depression.
The person leading worship might be holding back tears over a loss no one else can see.
And you, reading this, you might feel like you’re barely keeping your head above water, even while everyone around you seems convinced you’re “so strong.”
Can I say this gently but clearly?
You don’t have to be the strong one all the time.
You don’t have to earn hope by holding it together.
You are allowed to be weak, wobbly, and honest, and still be held entirely by God.
One of the simple lines from Shadow and Light says, “Noticing God helps us keep noticing him.”
That one line could preach a whole sermon!
In this first week of Advent, hope might look less like a grand gesture and more like that: a small, quiet noticing.
Noticing the way the sun hits the kitchen table.
Noticing the lump in your throat when you hear a Christmas hymn.
Noticing the tears that come out of nowhere and whispering, “God, be near right here.”
A Simple Practice for the First Week of Advent
If you, like me, are just now realizing you’ve been underwater longer than you knew, here’s a gentle way to lean into hope this week:
Light a candle (any candle).
You don’t need the “right” wreath or the “correct” color. Just light a small flame somewhere in your home. As you do, name out loud if you can, one place where life feels dark, heavy, or confusing right now. “Lord, this is where I feel underwater…”
Breathe a simple prayer.
As you watch the flame, slowly inhale and exhale a few times. With each breath, pray something like: “God of hope, give me your oxygen here.”
Nothing fancy. Just honest breath-prayers.
Notice one small light each day.
Before you go to bed, ask: Where did I see even the tiniest hint of your presence today, God? It might be a text from a friend, a verse, a song, a kind stranger, a moment of laughter. Write it down in a note on your phone or a journal. Let those small lights line the path through this week.
Let yourself be held.
If the only prayer you can manage is, “Jesus, please,” that’s enough. Hope isn’t measuring how well you’re “doing” Advent. Hope is a Person who has already come for you and will come again.
A Blessing for the Week of Hope
As you step into this first week of Advent, here’s a blessing I’m praying over myself…and over you:
May the God of hope meet you right where the water feels highest.
May He remind you that you are not alone in your grief, your questions, your anger, your confusion, or your hidden exhaustion.
May His light find its way into the corners you’re afraid to name, and may you feel, even faintly, the oxygen of His presence filling your lungs again.
One small candle at a time. One honest breath at a time.
Amen.
