I spent most of 2025 writing an Advent devotional.
During Advent of 2025, I miscarried a baby.
What started as a dream come true became a cruel irony. In early 2025, Hosanna Revival gave me the offer to write their first-ever printed Advent devotional. That same day, I began writing what would become Damascus: An Advent Journey Through the Life and Letters of Paul.
As I was finishing the book in late fall, a new chapter in my personal life began: We found out we were pregnant with our third baby. We decided to wait until Christmas to tell our families, but we never got the chance. Instead, a mere week before Christmas—and right in the middle of Advent’s week of joy—we heard the words no one ever wants to hear. Our baby’s heart had stopped beating.
I know many of you are familiar with this type of grief. There are no words that can adequately describe how devastating it is, so I won’t even try. And even if you’re not familiar with this particular form of grief, I’m sure there have been impossibly painful seasons in your life too. Seasons of life that make us look at Advent and think, “I can’t celebrate. Not like this. Not right now.” Seasons of life in which the themes of Advent—hope, peace, joy, love—ring hollow. When hope feels foolish, peace feels impossible, joy feels absent, and love feels more like a broken heart.
Before we lost our baby, I would have told you Advent was my favorite time of year. Thanks to my mom, I grew up absolutely loving Christmas. As I grew older, the fun celebration of Christmas began to intersect with the fundamental practice of Advent. The four weeks leading up to Christmas began to mean more than lighting candles and counting down on colorful calendars.
But Advent 2025 threatened the hope and expectation I had come to know. In a season of light, I felt nothing but darkness. In a season of joy, I felt nothing but grief. In a season of anticipation, I felt nothing but dread.
The days following my miscarriage were also the days I was supposed to read through Damascus once more before submitting my final draft. As I sat down and opened up that familiar Google Doc I had spent hundreds of hours on, I felt bitter. Cynical. Angry. If I’m completely honest, I didn’t want to read the words I had written throughout 2025 that would surely mock me now. But I quickly saw that while my circumstances had changed the way my heart was moving through Advent, they hadn't changed the heart of Advent itself.
As I scrolled through page after page, something began to shift in me. Not because of my words, but because of the way they pointed me back to the Word who became flesh and made his dwelling among us (John 1:14). That is the foundation of Advent: Jesus came as Immanuel, God with us, not because we were ready, tidy, or put together. He came because we needed him to.
Perhaps it’s when we feel the least ready for Advent that we actually need it the most.
John 1:10–11 describes how Jesus came to a world that was not ready for him, to his own creation that did not recognize him, to a people that did not receive him.
And yet, he came anyway.
When that truth hit me, I realized I didn’t need to have it all together, nor did my grief disqualify me from celebrating Advent. I didn’t have to enter Advent prepared, perfect, or put together. I didn’t have to be in the right headspace, have the right words, or check all the right boxes. Because, as the very next verse promises, “To all who did receive him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God” (John 1:12 NIV).
We are simply invited to receive and believe.
When we don’t feel ready for Advent, we must remember that Advent does not depend on us. We don’t have to spend December full of hope so long as we’re willing to look for the source of our hope. We don’t have to feel at peace to still choose to worship the Prince of Peace. We don’t have to fake joy when God is willing to meet us in our grief. We don’t have to love perfectly so long as we don’t lose sight of the fact that we are perfectly loved.
God wants us to come to him just as we are—in our brokenness, in our fear, in our grief. He entered into our messy world more than two thousand years ago, and he’s not afraid to enter into our messy lives today. So, let him. Make space for him. Sit with him in the stillness of each December morning and be honest with him. Get ready to receive all that he wants to offer you this season. And believe that no matter what December holds, God is holding us. He is with us, and he is for us. And whatever darkness we’re facing will not overcome the light that he offers (John 1:5).
So as we prepare for Advent, remember that it’s not about being ready; it’s about getting ready. Not just for what God might do this season but also for what is to come. For the ultimate hope of Advent is nothing less than the ultimate hope of eternity and the blessed assurance that the God who was there for us in the beginning will be there for us in the end.
For that reason, I can honestly say that Advent is still my favorite time of year.
Reflection Questions
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As we approach the Advent season, what is the posture of your heart? What losses, hesitations, or distractions might make it difficult for you to fully embrace Advent this year?
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What is one hope you have for Advent 2026? Write it down and pray through it leading up to and during the season, remaining open to what God wants to reveal to you.
Photo credit: Emilee Carpenter
