Category: Advent (Page 1 of 4)

There’s a certain point every December where the dark feels just plain heavy.

You notice it when you pull into the driveway at 4:50 p.m. and your headlights hit the same patch of ground they hit at 8 p.m. It’s the long night. The season where the sun seems to give up early. The time of year where the cold settles in your bones and even the land feels like it’s bracing itself.

This is the month when the chickens go to bed way too soon, the fields disappear into a huge shadow of darkness, and the only light I see is whatever spills out from the porch lamp or flickers inside the fireplace.

The long night is real in more places than the just the farm.

December brings its own shadows. It comes in the griefs that resurface. The pressure that tightens. The loneliness that sneaks up. The exhaustion that no amount of caffeine can solve. The reminder of what didn’t go as planned this year.

Nobody advertises that part of Christmas.

But the long night shows up anyway. On the land. In the house. In the heart.

And that’s exactly where Advent speaks the strongest.

Because Advent never pretended the night wasn’t long. It just proclaimed, with stubborn hope: The Light still comes.

Not because we earned it.
Not because we’re ready.
Not because we finally got our spiritual crap together.

But because God refuses to let the darkness win.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” – John 1:5 (ESV)

Every December night on this thirteen acre piece of land the same truth is preached to me.

When I walk from the barn to the house and the only illumination is a thin beam from a flashlight. When the cold wraps around me like a heavy blanket. When the trees stand like dark silhouettes against the sky.

That’s when I remember. Light doesn’t need ideal conditions. It just needs to show up.

And Jesus showed up.

Not in a palace. Not in a spotlight. Not when everyone was fine. Not when the world was filled with peace and calm.

He stepped into the long night of a world that couldn’t save itself. He stepped into Roman oppression. Into spiritual confusion. Into political tension. Into ordinary people living ordinary struggles.

He came into our darkness – not to judge us for it, but to break it.

And He’s still doing it.

He does it in hospital rooms. In quiet living rooms lit by a single Christmas tree. In sanctuaries where candles flicker against stained glass. In cars where people cry on their way home. In barns and bedrooms and kitchens and churches and cold nights out on the land.

The Light still comes. And the darkness still loses.

So as Christmas arrives and this series closes, here’s your last Christmas invite:

Don’t fear the long night. Instead look for the Light. Even the smallest flame pushes back the dark. Even the faintest glow announces hope. Even the smallest spark of faith proclaims: He’s here.

On these acres, in this season, in this life of yours Advent ends with one promise. The Light has come, the Light is here, and the Light will keep coming.

And the darkness? It never gets the final word.

Sometimes it’s about showing up in the hard moments of Advent.

There’s nothing quite like the sound of cracking ice out of a chicken waterer at 5:15 a.m. in December to remind you that life isn’t always inspirational.

The sun isn’t up.
The wind is disrespectfully strong.
Your gloves are never as warm as the advertisement promises.
And the chickens, God bless them, stare at you like you caused winter.

This is the part of acreage living nobody puts on Instagram.
This is the part of ministry no one writes worship songs about.
This is the part of December that Hallmark keeps pretending doesn’t exist.

But here’s the undeniable truth: Faithfulness rarely feels glamorous. Most days it looks like freezing fingers, stubborn chores, and showing up anyway.

While I’m kicking an ice block out of a bucket before the first cup of coffee, Advent hits me with another lesson:

God didn’t wait for ideal conditions to show up. So I can’t either?

He came when the world was cold.
He came when the night was long.
He came when the people were tired, worn, frustrated, waiting, fed up, and spiritually frozen.

He came into the mess not after the mess cleaned itself up.

That little water bucket in the coop preaches the Gospel better than half the sermons I write:

Faithfulness is doing what’s needed even when it’s inconvenient, unseen, and uncelebrated.

Advent reminds me that God Himself is faithful in the same way. Not flashy. Not loud. Not waiting for me to be impressive.

Just showing up. Every day. Every moment. Every season.

Jesus didn’t come because the world finally got it together. He came because we couldn’t.

And He kept showing up…
in Nazareth,
in the wilderness,
in people’s pain,
in their questioning,
in the overlooked corners of life.

If God can show up in a manger, He can show up in my frozen chicken coop. He can show up in your stress-filled December. He can show up in worship number three of the week. He can show up when the schedule is too full, the emotions are thin, and the to-do list is laughing at you.

So here’s the heart of Advent Week 2:

Advent faith isn’t built in warm moments. It’s built in cold mornings.
It’s built when you show up even when you don’t feel like it.
It’s built in small, faithful steps that nobody sees but God.

The chickens never say thank you. Life doesn’t always say thank you. Ministry certainly doesn’t always say thank you.

But faithfulness was never about applause. It’s about presence.

God’s presence with us. Our presence in the small things. His steady love. Our steady steps.

Even if those steps involve a frozen chicken waterer and breath you can see in the air.

Advent continues one cold morning at a time. And yep…God is still faithful.