One past November, I found myself waiting in the U.S. Immigration office in Minneapolis. I had been attempting to adopt a baby from Honduras for quite some time. The process had become fraught with complications, and on that day, I was attempting to acquire yet another document that U.S. Immigration had lost. As I sat there reading the signs in the waiting area, written in English, Spanish, and Hmong, it hit me for the first time that the Spanish word for ‘wait’ is the same as the word for ‘hope’…’esperando.’ 

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My paternal grandmother lived more than 400 miles away, making her visits rare but delightful. The four young Jette boys would anxiously count down the days until Grandma Jette arrived. Our excitement grew with each sunrise. Because I was so young when she died, I don’t remember much about her—but I’ve never forgotten the feeling of anticipation and the joy her presence brought. Pure delight.

Just as those young Jette lads anticipated their grandmother’s arrival, we now find ourselves in another season of expectation.

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While serving on staff for a local church for several years, we used to call the timeframe from Thanksgiving to Christmas Eve, “Thanksmas.”  From a planning and operational standpoint, the two milestone dates on the calendar seemed to run together. While it was a holy time, filled with special services and a sense of anticipation, it also became a bit of a blur for those developing and leading the services, events, and activities of the season. Try as we might, we couldn’t slow things down.

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During the past years of wartime, Christmas in Ukraine is quieter – much quieter – as the glow of candlelight replaces electric bulbs during a power outage. The traditions remain the same, but they have become more heartfelt and feel more sincere.

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Imagine you’re ready to give birth, the nearest hospital is 25 miles away, and the only way to get there is by ox cart or bicycle. Mothers in Zambia, Africa, need no imagination in such a situation. This is the reality in Siavonga, a remote community three and a half hours from the capital city Lusaka.

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The Gospel of Luke opens with the words “In the time of Herod.” We usually read over those words rather quickly, ready to jump into the action of the rest of the story. But the words paint a picture of the world into which Jesus was born. A world filled with rampant oppression, economic disparity, uncertainty, and instability. A world in which there was plenty to fear.

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Little “Esther,” the daughter of an undocumented migrant worker in Beirut, Lebanon, is coloring in her picture of Jesus as she experiences His love. “Esther” attends one of two Philemon Project GROW Center preschools in Beirut. She and her mother are learning that Jesus, Lord of all the world, also knows each of them by name, even if society denies their rights and legal existence. 

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During my years in Africa, I came to know many watchmen. In each home I lived, there was always a watchman standing guard during the night. Yacob, Mosie, Inussa, and Pierre were those I knew best. Often, I would step out of my home at night and go talk to them. Night watchmen even have their own special kinds of wisdom and beliefs. They have lots of time to reflect, lots of time to wonder. Some watchmen were not helpful. They would sleep through loud noises, and people knocking at the gate. They were fearful themselves - and would run to me for help.

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