Because devastation and night are persistent realities,
mercy and dawn are persistent longings.
Advent worship aligns our inner and outer lives with
deep dawn: the unfolding story of shalom.
We never return. Past realities are not restored.
Rather, we are held within an unfolding story.

These words by Leonard Beechy were read each Sunday during Advent 2023 as part of a candlelighting ritual at Eighth Street Mennonite Church in Goshen, Ind.

The earth would be better off without humans.

This is the conclusion you have drawn. At just 8 years old, your observations — out the car window, on the news and across the street — have led you to believe our presence on this planet has done more harm than good.

I ask you why you think this.

Just look around. It’s obvious, and it’s everywhere.

I want to convince you otherwise. I want to prove to you that humans are made in God’s image, that there is a way of living that honors the sacred in all things — and that while humans have done much harm, there is still much for which we hope.

As we lament the destruction ­humans have caused, I say to you:

It is not your fault.

We have inherited the world of our ancestors. We can never go back.

We are held within an unfolding story.

It’s within this story that I find myself turning to you. While our planet’s crises are not your doing, you embody seeds of wisdom.

Seeds of hope are planted within you. You will not always get it right; that is OK. But I want you to know that you, my children, are pointing to another way — a way that leads to peace.

In these dark December days, each of you has said to me: “I am afraid of the dark.”

I hear an unspoken question: “Is it OK to be afraid?”

Night is a persistent reality, my children.

We are longing for the dawn.

A Christmas tree

We headed out on a Saturday after­noon to select, cut down and bring home our Christmas tree. We set off with determination and gusto.

The tree farm attendant handed us a saw, and we drove down the bumpy lane, looking for just the right place to search.

Before we could get out of the truck, you, Henry, wondered aloud:

Are we going to kill the tree?

We all sat there. This was not the spirit in which I imagined this day unfolding.

Well, yes, when we sawed down the tree we would sever it from its roots, its source of life. We would provide water, but that would only help it stay fresh for a few weeks before we took it to the woods to decompose.

I don’t want to kill the tree.

I heard you, but my love of this tradition got us all out of the truck and walking among the triangle-shaped, greened-up Christmas trees.

Your questions got us thinking, though. Our usually cheerful frolicking among the trees took on a more somber tone.

It didn’t take long before we’d settled on a tree we all admired. We gathered around her.

Is she the one? I asked.

I’m sad, you replied.

So, we asked her permission.

We asked if we could cut her trunk and take her home.

We asked if she could help bear witness to the coming dawn during these dark days, bringing light into our home and hearts.

We asked, and then we paused, awaiting some sort of response. After some time I asked:

What did you hear?

I didn’t hear her speaking, you replied.

I suggested she might be saying, “This is what I’m made for,” as a tree on a Christmas tree farm.

You tenderly touched her needles. Mae wrapped her arms around her branches.

We promised to love her, enjoy her and to return her to the earth when her needles started to drop.

And with that, your dad sawed her down.

That evening, when we placed her in the tree stand and brought her into the house, we did so with an ease we hadn’t experienced before.

Perhaps it’s because we received permission.

You, my children, pay attention to life. You take seriously the value, the gift, of all lives. You know the trees and the plants are teeming with life. You remind me to honor their sacredness.

Deer friends

Throughout the fall, a family of three deer hung around our home. A mother and her two young grazed on the acorns and leafy greens in a grassy patch.

Late one afternoon, the two of you joined them. Dad and I watched from the window as you slowly approached the deer, pausing as if to show you meant no harm.

They watched you cautiously until they seemed to settle into your presence and you into theirs. You got down on all fours, pretending to eat the grass and seeds, like they were.

This went on for minutes until the momma deer nodded her head as if to say, “Come on, kids, time to go.” The deer walked slowly away, up Turtle Hill behind our house, leaving you two behind.

This scene played itself out several times throughout the fall. All of us watched and waited for the deer, eager to greet them.

It was also this fall that you, Henry, learned we had agreed to allow a friend to do some bow hunting in an open field where we’d recently planted 9,000 trees. It was an attempt to give the trees a chance of survival in the face of a high deer population that threatened them.

You took in what you heard and asked for clarification. I told you the truth. And you wept. I gathered you in my arms.

How could you do this?

How would you like it if someone did this to you?

Your deep perception of the interconnectedness of all life, the value of all life, the love of all life is a sacred gift.

Silent prayers

Mealtime grace is an important ritual in our family.

It’s often messy, inelegant, sometimes even the source of an argument.

But recently, the two of you have brought to the table something that has opened up space for us to breathe, together.

Rather than words, you both, in your own ways, have invited us into silence.

Sometimes with motions to guide us, at other times in quiet stillness, you have asked for, and held, the silence.

In the moments when the candle is lit and the silence is held, I feel a small shift happening with me, around us and beyond us. We are not only joined together in prayer, but our inner longings are held together.

In the silence, we know we are not alone.

Yes, it’s a ritual your dad and I taught. But it’s also a ritual you are now guiding us into.

When you hold the silence longer, when you motion with your hands to the world beyond our walls, when you lay your hands gently on your heart in gratitude, when your mouth forms the word “Amen,” I sense a shift — even if but for a moment — in the world.

Our inner worlds and outer worlds align in the unfolding story of peace.

An act of love

At the end of a hard day, when my capacity for kindness toward my family felt stretched, I found myself helping you, Mae, with your bath before bedtime.

As the bath water drained, before you got out of the tub, I stepped in to rinse off my own feet. I bent down, but before I could begin, you picked up the washcloth and said, “Let me wash your feet.”

I had little to give you that night.

And you washed my feet.

I allowed myself to receive your blessing.

I received your love.

Final words

My children, you have taught me something of love.

A tangible, embodied, messy and brilliant love.

A love that does not deny the fear and devastation we face.

A love that recognizes the life of others — human, animal, rock, tree. A love that beckons you to stillness and silence. A love you express in words and through your daily living.

You know this love. It’s in you.

As we await the Prince of Peace, we are held in Love, in an unfolding story. May we find our home, and our hope, there.

Jenna Liechty Martin is executive director of Camp Friedenswald, Cassopolis, Mich., where she lives with her family.