A few weeks ago, I read a reflection written by Rose Coleman, on the Blessed is She platform. She reflected on the fall weather where she lives in Minnesota and likened it to the Advent season.

She wrote, “Autumn always feels abrupt here, one moment a vibrant celebration, the next a quiet letting go. It looked like everything was ending. But I knew the truth: The trees weren’t dying. They were preparing.”

Coleman then went on to reflect on Jesus’ words, “Consider the fig tree and all the other trees. When their buds burst open, you see for yourselves and know that summer is now near” (Lk 21:29–30).

In nature, I recognize these truths and appreciate the tangible reminders that, at this time of year, life is merely changing, not ending, words that are reflected in our Catholic funeral Masses.

These words and the concept of dying truly resonated with me when my godmother – and one of my favourite people in the world – passed away quite unexpectedly right after the Feast of Christ the King. She died from this life, and life as we have always known it has ended.

Sadly, just over a week after she left us, her husband of 56 years died as well. My uncle had been ill, but that does not change the grief faced by his children and all the loved ones the couple leaves behind. This Advent, we feel the pain of waiting, as we struggle in a season of death.

I believe in heaven and eternal life, but right now, the idea of waiting for heaven and for buds to burst open feels overwhelming. I want to see all of my loved ones who have gone before us, including my dad who died two years ago; my godfather who died in August; and now my godmother and her husband who will not share another earthly Christmas with us.

Rose Coleman, however, notes that “The Kingdom is not far off. It is close, present, hidden in the quiet changes. We do not have to see full bloom to believe growth is happening … Seasons will shift. Leaves will fall. But the promises of God remain.”

God is with us during this time. Perhaps one of the signs of this is the fact that my uncle was called to join my aunt so soon after her death. As hard as that reality is for those left behind, God had a plan. We need to look for the joy in the memories, and the hope of new life that still remains buried in the cold, the darkness, and the barren nature surrounding us.

As Coleman writes, “We … experience these autumnal moments, times of letting go, quieting down, preparing for what we cannot yet see. But we are not forgotten. We are being formed. So we watch. We wait. We remain rooted. Because even in the letting go, the Kingdom is near.”

As difficult as this season is, I must remain rooted in my faith. Christ entered the world as a tiny baby to redeem us and give us the gift of eternal salvation. My loved ones have been called into that salvation, and I must focus on the joy and hope that dwell hidden beneath the veil of grief.

In this time of mourning and of waiting – either for the Second Coming or for my own call Home – I need to recall the famous words of St. Teresa of Calcutta: “Are we ready to receive him? Before the birth of Jesus, his parents asked for a simple dwelling place, but there was none. If Mary and Joseph were looking for a home for Jesus, would they choose … your heart, and all it holds? Let us pray that we shall be able to welcome Jesus at Christmas…”

I want to meet my God and spend eternity with him. Furthermore, the only way that I will see my loved ones again is to focus on preparing my own heart for Christ. Come, Lord Jesus into this Advent season. Temper my impatience; still my worries; slow my rushing; heal my heart.

Eternal rest grant unto all our loved ones, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May the knowledge of the joy of Your birth brighten our darkness, and may we look for signs of hope and glimpses of Your light, as we wait on this side of heaven.

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