I almost lost my dad last week. Covid-19 knocked over his door and pushed him into the I.C.U. He was alone in there for days and days. Even my mom, his wife of fifty-one years, could not be with him.

I think of my dad and all those like him, forced into cruel medicinal isolation for their own lives’ sake. They lie face up in their confusion, tangled in tubes and ominous beeping. They have to work, now, even for their breath—something that’s always been free to them before. Their loved are kept away, and even the empathy of nurses, the fallback comfort of the afflicted, is hidden from them behind sterile masks. How many thousands have slipped away in that lonely anguish?

I think of all this, and shake my head. Because it’s not supposed to be this way. And one day, it won’t.

***

We need to get one thing straight: Advent is not Christmas. Christmas is about celebration. Advent is about waiting for that celebration.

Every December, Christians of every shade get busy waiting. We do it by lighting candles and reflecting on the meaning of hope. We put ourselves in the shoes of two ancient women: Mary and Elizabeth, the unlikeliest mothers that ever were. Both women received a promise from upstairs, and both had to wait receive it. Their sons would turn the world on its head: John would prepare the way, and Jesus would open the gates of a kingdom with no limits.

So these two cousins, what did they do? They got busy waiting.

There’s a reason we call pregnant women “expectant.” I remember when Sara was pregnant with our oldest. I remember getting the nursery ready. The baby showers, the bassinet, the jogging stroller, and the teddy bears.

We got all ourselves ready, too. We read books, sought advice, and asked for grace. My dear wife was uncomfortable (duh), but to borrow a phrase I often hear women say of one another, she was also glowing.

Waiting is not a popular hobby. But when you’re expecting something wonderful, it takes the shape of joy.

You can choose to wait without expectation, of course, but it isn’t pretty. There’s a specific word we use in English for that kind of waiting. We call it loitering.

I remember how I used to loiter in Broadway Square Mall in Tyler, Texas. I didn’t shop. I didn’t have a plan. I would just go there with my friends and wait. For what? For nothing. I was just there, existing. I remember once, going to the music store with my cousin, and I passed some kid about my age. He spun around and yelled, “hey man, you’re walkin’ too close to me!” I didn’t turn around, so he said it again, only louder, and more Vanilla Ice-ish. I ignored him again.

That was the day I realized what a dismal place the mall was.

But this, I fear, is how too many of us roll. We loiter through life, breathing and out, waiting to die. We go to work every day and look forward to nothing except for maybe the weekends. Maybe there will be enough diversions to numb the longings buried in bellies. Maybe we can exist for long enough to find something like meaning. But until then, you can find us on a bench between the food court of presidential politics and the Sun Glasses Hut of Netflix.

But there is a better way.

I am waiting for something very specific. You can call me a fool, I don’t care, because I’ve made up my mind: I am waiting for the return of the one who was born to Mary in a manger. She waited for his first advent; his arrival. I await the second. This is the truth that defines me most in this life.

Why do I wait for Him? Because when He comes, I believe He will bring with Him the restoration of all things. All the broken places will be made new.

This, I believe, is the reason we have all these longings in the first place. As Mr. Lewis pointed out, we don’t ache for things that aren’t real. We don’t desire a thing unless that thing actually exists. So why would our stubborn hearts go on like they do, continuing to cry out for a relief to all suffering, unless that relief is coming? Why do we desire justice? Why peace? Why forgiveness? Why connection? Why do we long to be fully known and fully loved?

It’s because those things are on the way. Christ has come, and He’s coming again.

Today, we work toward healing in all it’s forms, because that’s what He will do. But we will always come to the end to our efforts. We are human. Limited.

When Christ returns, He will finish it all. We won’t have to rely on vaccines and ventilators because viruses will be eradicated. Disease will be undone. Pandemics will be forgotten. Our father will never again ache alone in houses of suffering. The pain, the terror, the isolation… all of it will be a distant dream.

***

My dad didn’t die last week. He’s home resting now with my mom. I talked to him yesterday, and he’s giddy like Lazarus, grateful for the gift of every new breath. I heard him laugh and he sounded like Santa Claus, the man who he’s always mistaken for, and a tear came to my eye.

Dad’s rally is not the final restoration, I know. We are the lucky ones. One day, I will still have to let go of him, just as thousands have let go of their fathers these wretched months. But his turnaround, like every temporal healing, is a foretaste of what is to come, when all will be made new.

I ache for that reality, but I ache with joy. I am expectant, with my friends, Mary and Elizabeth, and with all those who call upon the name of Christ this Advent season. Together, we close our eyes and pray the prayer of Julian of Norwich: “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

(I preached on this at my church last Sunday, and thought I’d post it here for those who are interested. That interpreter, by the way, is my wife, Sara. She’s ridiculously good. Just watch her on the mall story…)

When Janae got embarrassed, things got funny. Like when she lived in the apartment above us, and she needed help with her luggage. I don’t remember where she was returning from–we were both working with a missions agency, and she  traveled often–but I remember it was a short trip. Far too short to necessitate a suitcase with the approximate weight of an upright piano. I laughed all the way up the stairs, making the usual comments about anvils or corpses, and she launched into her embarrassed defense.

“What? It’s not that heavy!” But it was, and she knew it was, and the more red-faced she got, the more words came out. She needed those cute shoes for her green outfit, didn’t she? And what if got cold? She would need that thick coat if it got cold, and then she would need her boots! Janae’s packing tendencies were only matched by her blushing verbocity: less was never more; only more was more.

That was my sister. We had different parents, but for the past 16 years, Janae Alice McWilliams was a staple in the Hague household. She was a part of us. When we left Texas for California, we left together. When we migrated from California to Oregon, we migrated together. When we lost our dear Karen, we mourned together in the little house we shared for more than three years. She was my kids’ auntie and chief cheerleader; their personal, in-home Mary Poppins. She went to dance recitals and soccer games, and when Sara and I couldn’t make one of those events, we never worried too much. Janae could be there. That would be plenty for the kids.

But she can’t be there anymore. Janae left us five weeks ago. It was cancer. At her memorial, everyone talked about how extravagant she was in the way she loved people. With the possible exception of her mother, I think Sara and I received more of that extravagance than anyone else. It started the day Jenna was born, nearly 16 years ago. We were supposed to be moving into a new place that day when Sara’s water broke, and we had to abandon the moving team we had already assembled. Janae took charge of them all, so that when my wife and I came to our apartment with baby in arm, there were no boxes to unpack. Beds were set up, the crib assembled, and everything was in its place. Even our clock was on the wall. There was something about that clock. When we saw it, we both cried at the great gift our friend had given us.

That was when it began. That was when we knew she would be ours.

Janae’s over-the-top tendencies always drew a sharp contrast to my own absent-minded minimalism. Truly, she was my sister, but we could never have grown up in the same household. Her grand gestures always dwarfed my own feeble attempts at appreciation. She gave the best, most thoughtful birthday presents. I gave her gift cards. That kind of thing always embarrassed me, but how could I compete with her? How could anyone compete with her?

“JasonHague, are you at the office?” That’s what she called me. She rammed my name together until it was one syllable.

“Yeah, why?”

“Good. I have a surprise for you. I’ll be there in a minute.”

And then she’d come with a latte or a CD or a Toblerone, and I’d feel embarrassed again, because after so many years, the tally of gifts was heavily in her favor already.

I’m not sure she noticed, though, because really, she did this with everyone. She loved to figure out people’s favorite things so she could tell them, “I have a surprise for you.” When she gave the gift, she’d pounce on them with a gigantic hug (she is famous in seventeen nations for her hugs), and an exuberant monologue of unbridled encouragement would ensue.

That was my sister. She loved people with candy bars and wild words of praise; with long conversations, deep embraces, and clocks on the wall. She spoke all five love languages with a native accent.

My kids have learned much from her. “Miss Janae, you make my heart smile,” Sam would tell her as a four year old, because that’s the way she talked, and he wanted to speak her dialect. I tried it, too, now and again. She loved Cherry Pepsi, and when I dropped by her office, I’d occasionally bring her one.

“JasonHague, you’re just the best!” she would say, and pull me in. I’m not much of a hugger. Everyone knows that. She knew that, but she didn’t care. Because she could see through my relative minimalism. She knew I loved her back.

And now that she’s gone, that’s what I’m counting on. That she really knew. Because like all brothers and sisters, we butted heads all the time. We knew each other too well.

When I turned forty in November, my friends had one of those mandatory, “say something nice about Jason” circles, and she pounced.

“JasonHague, you are my favorite,” she said. “And that’s what I tell people: JasonHague is my favorite. But sometimes, he can be such a jackass!” We all fell apart laughing. It was perfect. But it also stung just a tad. Not because she was wrong; I know full well that I can be a jackass, and I didn’t mind her saying so. No, it stung because of where my mind flashed to; the times I hurt her like almost nobody else could. Like when I took her for granted, as if her die-hard devotion to me and my family was somehow pedestrian; as if it was a small thing to hear people gape at how much she loved us; as if her unassailable, self-sacrificial loyalty to the Hague clan was our right, and not her gift.

I still wince, even though I begged her forgiveness, and she gave it freely. I wince, because I fear she died with my small bruises still on her soul.

Last week, I was with a group of friends at the coast, trying to be social. It’s harder than normal. Everything is harder than normal right now. Janae’s health declined so rapidly that her death feels more like a sudden accident than a lost cancer battle. We didn’t have time to brace ourselves, and even a month later, the tears come suddenly and won’t stop. Even in the coffee shop where I write this right now, I can’t quite turn them off.

I said in my book that grief doesn’t walk in a straight line, but that it meanders. I’m now remembering how right I was. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been through this before. Mourning is still an expedition, and I’m not leading it.

On Saturday at midnight, I sat on a cliffside bench staring at the dark Pacific waves raging beneath me. The coast is usually my happiest, most peaceful place; the spot where words flow freely, and glimpses of God’s eternal presence come unbidden. But they didn’t come that night. Instead, my minimalism got the best of me. I didn’t even have a coat to shield me from the cold Oregon wind. In this way, like so many others, I was the opposite of Janae. I always try to stuff only the essentials in my backpack. It’s a matter of pride: I don’t need much. Less is more.

But sometimes less is just less. I had to wrap myself in a blanket from the house, because the world was cold, and I missed her.

God was up there, of course, hovering over the face of the waters, but I hadn’t packed any prayers for him. There was just not enough room in my bag. So I looked up at the clouds and said only one thing aloud: “Can you just sit with me tonight?” Because those were all the words I had. And I think He honored them.

“Love covers a multitude of sins,” St. Peter said. I believe him. I think God sees me down here in my brokenness, and sits with me in the silence. He sees my questions and brewing resentments, but He has enough love to cover it all. In my deepest places, I know His love is enough. I know His goodness is intact.

But does Peter’s statement extends beyond God alone? To Janae herself, I mean? I can only hope, because that’s all I have left. I can only hope that what she told me in the hospital was true: that I had helped to heal her heart. That sixteen years ago, she had needed a brother in her life, and God had given me to her. That I–that we–had been every bit the gift to her as she was to us.

 

Hope is all that’s left, because she’s gone now, and it’s too late for more Cherry Pepsi. It’s too late to double check whether I displayed enough of my overly-casual love to make her more or less forget my times of jackassery.

I know they say not to have regrets, but I have them. I think it’s okay to look back and wince every now and again; to hope that our love was wide enough, and to trust that even where it wore thin, things might still be okay. Because whether we pack heavy or pack light, this life is a temporary destination. Eventually, we will go home, and Someone else will have to carry us up the stairs. We will have to trust that His love is full enough to make up for all the places ours wore thin.

Every night at bedtime, Nathan, my seven year old, has been praying the same thing: “Jesus, please tell Miss Janae that we love her so, so, so, so, so, so much.” I don’t know if his theology checks out, but it’s a good prayer. And today, it is my prayer, too: that the one who loved with such extravagance might understand, today, how much we loved her, too.

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(We took this video this past Christmas day. I’m so glad we did.)