As December arrives, a familiar feeling of frenzy comes with it. To-do lists lengthen, calendars fill, and the pressure to create a perfect holiday season mounts. In the midst of this, the gentle, almost countercultural invitation of the Christian season of Advent can feel like a whisper trying to be heard over a roar.

In my Episcopal tradition, among others, Advent (Latin adventus, “coming; arrival”) is not merely a countdown to Christmas. It is a distinct season with a character all its own – a time of “active hope” and “holy preparation.” It is a four-week journey that asks us to practice the delicate art of waiting. But this is not the passive waiting of staring at a clock; it is the hopeful waiting of a gardener who plants a bulb in the cold, dark earth, trusting in the promise of spring light.

This kind of waiting is a radical act defying a world of instant gratification. We are conditioned to expect immediate answers, next-day delivery, and rapid solutions. Yet the deepest and most meaningful things in life cannot be rushed. We cannot hurry grief, force reconciliation or microwave spiritual growth. They all require the patient, trusting passage of time.

So, how do we cultivate this sense of patient, expectant waiting when everything around us screams “now!”?

Perhaps we start by simply noticing. Advent invites us to pay attention to the quality of the darkness. The early sunsets and long nights aren’t something to merely endure until Dec. 25. They provide a canvas against which even the smallest light shines more brightly. Lighting a single candle on the Advent wreath each week is a physical practice of acknowledging the darkness while actively participating in pushing it back, bit by bit, with hope, peace, joy and love.

This active waiting also asks us to make space for silence. It is in the quiet moments, perhaps before the rest of the house is awake or during a solitary walk after dusk, that we can tune our hearts to the frequency of longing. What are we truly waiting for? Not just presents under a tree, but perhaps peace in a troubled world, healing for a loved one or a sense of purpose in our own lives. Advent gives us permission to sit with that longing and recognize it as a sacred space where God often meets us.

Finally, holy waiting is inherently hopeful. It is built on the promise that what we seek is indeed coming. The child is born. The light does shine in the darkness. The ancient words of the prophet Isaiah, read in churches during these weeks, speak of a world set right, where swords are beaten into plowshares. We wait for that reality, and in our waiting, we are called to act as if it is already on its way: by offering kindness, seeking justice and being agents of peace in our own circles.

This Advent, I invite you to embrace the gift of the wait. Resist the frenzy for a few moments each day. Light a candle. Sit in the silence. Allow yourself to feel the longing. In doing so, we don’t diminish the joy of Christmas Day; we prepare a deeper, wider and more resilient space in our hearts to receive it.

May your waiting be holy, your heart be watchful and your inner light brighter.

The Rev. Andrew McLarty is Rector at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Columbus.

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