Gratitude and Expectation
Written by Angela Herrera Sunday, 30 November 2008 00:00
An intergenerational service, with the sermon in two parts.
Part I
Here we are, on the first Sunday in Advent. Advent, which means coming, or arrival, the season of expectation, the season when light is reborn. We are still so close to thanksgiving, we’re on the cusp, really, poised between our holidays of gratitude and expectation…poised also on the pews, perhaps with a trace of that strange combination of comfort and awkwardness that belong to the traveler who returns home after a long time away, and finds her surroundings both familiar and strange… because her eyes have changed.
Poised on the pews then, with our gratitude and our expectation. And what is the relationship between the two? The holidays seem to be in reverse order. In regular life, aren’t we usually grateful after we get something? After what we expected, or didn’t, has arrived? It seems that way, but thinking about this peculiar order reminded me that actually, the two are not easily organized. We may expect something, and then feel grateful. We may have the mindfulness to be grateful for our expectations in and of themselves, grounded as they often are in hope and likelihood, or—if we’re really good—we may have an “attitude of gratitude,” an ongoing spiritual practice of naming and giving thanks for all that is good or fruitful or real in our lives. On the other hand, expectations can sneak up on us, too, going unrecognized until they are unmet, and we feel frustrated or offended.
And then there are the times when the unexpected brings us to gratitude and even amazement.
I have a story about that. It’s piece of my personal story, and it starts out kind of sad but hang in there. I promise that it will get better. I wouldn’t tell it to you if it didn’t, and I think it really fits.
When I was a teenager, about fifteen years old, my family hit some really hard times. My parents had just divorced. That was pretty rough. My grandmother, who always used to take my sister and me to the beach, and who called me a “dirty dog” once when I beat her at a game of cards, was very sick. And my dad was sent away to military training for a war. I’ll bet some of the kids here might not realize that the United States fought a different war in Iraq before the one we have now. It was much smaller. My dad went over there—not to Iraq exactly, but to Saudi Arabia nearby. And around the same time he left, my mother my sister, and I left our small town and our house, and moved…an hour away, to an apartment near downtown Portland, Oregon. What I remember most about that little basement apartment is that it had cement walls and huge pipes running across the ceiling, and the windows had black metal security bars on them. Actually, my sister, who was 12, painted a picture of it back then, and I have it with me today. Here’s what she thought our building looked like… [Holding up a bleak looking watercolor painting of a brown building with black stripes over the windows.]
What do you think?... the bars reminded me of a jail.
I remember that I wasn’t very grateful at all when we moved into it, even though my mom was doing the best she could. I thought it was really ugly, and I’m sorry to say that I told her so. I started at a new school, much bigger than my old one, and I didn’t know anybody. And what’s worse, my mother, sister, and I didn’t have enough money to get by very well. It was a really rotten time.
I would like to say we banded together with an attitude of gratitude in the weeks before Christmas, and that we counted the blessings we did have. After all, at least the three of us were together. At least we had a place to live. Our apartment might not have been pretty, but it was warm. And some of our neighbors were really nice people. They came up with the great idea of leaving unwanted clothing in a special basket in the laundry room, so we could all trade with each other, which was pretty fun. And even though my dad was going away to a war, the part of it where he would be did not seem to put him in grave danger. But I had a hard time focusing on the good things just then.
My expectations were not good that year, and I remember that even though I wanted to be hopeful and grateful, I was disappointed. It was going to be what my friend Donna calls, “A good old socks and underwear kind of Christmas,” which means, if we had any presents to give one another, they’d probably just be—well, socks and underwear. Simple things that we needed. Nothing very exciting. Now, we know Christmas is not all about presents, but let’s face it: they’re right up there on the list of favorite things. There’s even a song about it. Julie Andrews sang it, and she seems very virtuous.
Furthermore it just didn’t feel the same without our family together, without our hometown, without a fancy meal with mashed potatoes and—my favorite thing—olives you can stick on your fingertips and then wiggle around like funny little puppets.
For these reasons, I was kind of dreading the whole thing.
And you know, that happens. I mentioned that expectations can be grounded in hope and probability, but sometimes holiday expectations are not hopes. A person might be sick, and not feeling so cheerful. Or they may be sad because someone they love will not be with them. Maybe they are the ones away from their family, and they are lonely. I am sure that just as there are folks here today who are very excited about the holidays, there are some who are sad, and some who are both happy and sad. Even kids can have mixed feelings. For example, if you are a kid and someone in your family is having kind of a sad Christmas, you might feel sad too, even though you are hopeful at the same time. It happens sometimes. And this shapes our holiday expectations. But then, things you don’t expect can happen, too. And when your expectations are low, this can be a very good thing.
To be continued…in a few minutes.
Gratitude and Expectation: Part II
So you might be wondering what happened next in my story. Did everything turn out okay? Yes. But of course that took a while. What happened first was this:
On that Christmas morning that I had not been looking forward to very much, my sister and I woke up to the sound of exclamations coming from the hall outside our door. It was our mother’s voice, and she was very excited about something out there. We climbed out of bed and looked to see what was happening. There she was in her pajamas, and next to her—to our surprise— was a huge pile of presents. When I called my mom this week and told her I’d be sharing this story, she reminded me that there were fifty-two of them. It was really unbelievable. Someone had left them in the early morning hours; presents picked out for each of us, with our names on them. There were blankets, sweaters, makeup, slippers, chocolate…I don’t remember what else. I do remember insisting that my mother must have known who had left them! To this day she swears that she doesn’t. It’s been almost twenty years and I’m starting to believe her. My hunch is that it was either someone from the First Unitarian Church, or Santa. Who thinks it was Santa? [Hands shoot up all over the sanctuary]. It might have been! We’ll probably never know for absolute sure. What I did know was that we weren’t as alone in the city as I thought. We had presents, sure. But even better—really—was the fact that someone had noticed our situation. Someone was looking out for us. Maybe someone that I had never even noticed was near.
That Christmas, while I worried that I didn’t have enough spirit within to hold up the time of ceremonies and tradition, it turned out others had brought enough to carry us through, and someone had reached out from that communion of Christmas spirit, and touched us with it.
When we lit the advent candle this morning, we affirmed—or was it a prayer?—that
Against the darkness winter brings, we bring our light.
The candles of our hearts lit by the Advent Star.
In darkened places, to guard against the longest night.
Both affirmation and prayer, perhaps. It’s says something of our expectations—that darkness is inevitable. The longest night looms. And surely we each know the way this looks in the private corners of our lives. Of this the holiday loss wreath is a visible reminder.
There are times when we aren’t sure how to uncover “the candles of our hearts.” Aren’t even sure about exposing them to be lit by Advent, our personal winters can be so cold. And there are times when our hearts light up easily, bright as the advent star itself; when gratitude is the product of our joy more than our spiritual discipline. The stand-out word in our response, then, is “we.” We bring our light. Just as our candle was lit by an elder and a younger member of our congregation, it takes folks in all stages and places in life to make up a we that can bring light against the darkness, light whose reach extends beyond the joyful hearts, to touch the troubled and quiet ones, too. We can’t take away one another’s troubles or sadness, any more than that mysterious gift-giver could solve my little family’s hard times. What we can offer one another is the light that never goes out. “You don’t have to keep it up all the time,” we can say, “because I’ve got it for you.” The title of this sermon is “gratitude and expectation,” but I think I’ve broken one of the rules from Gary’s preaching class, because it’s really about love and communion.
On the other hand, I have also heard him say that any preacher worth his or her salt really only has two sermons, and keeps preaching them over and over again, in different variations. I do think “love and communion” is one of mine.
This is my expectation and the promise for which I am both grateful and amazed: that this winter, whether you are here for the first time, or just for the first time in a long time, you have found in this—our very own sanctuary—a place to bring your whole heart, with all of its expectations, its gratitude and its longing. Whether you are tying a ribbon on the loss wreath, or feeling deeply the hope and light of this season, or both, you are in the right place.
May it be so.
Amen.