THOUGHT FOR THE WEEK: Awakening Advent hope to begin again writes Offaly columnist

“Be still, and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10). Advent invites us into a season that many of us instinctively resist, the season of waiting. We live in a world that loves certainty, speed and clear answers. Yet God often chooses to meet us in the in-between spaces, those quiet, uncertain stretches when we cannot see what comes next. Waiting is rarely comfortable. It draws our hidden worries toward the surface. It asks us to face the noise inside ourselves that we usually drown out with busyness. And it reminds us of how vulnerable we really are. But Advent gently whispers that vulnerability is not failure, it is the place where God chooses to begin. This waiting season of Advent began just last Sunday, a gentle doorway into a new spiritual year, a soft light rising in winter’s darkness.

While the world rushes ahead with glitter, lists, presents and deadlines, Advent steps in quietly, inviting us to slow down, breathe deeply, and prepare our hearts for something deeper than celebration, for hope itself. “Prepare the way of the Lord, make straight His paths.” (Mark 1:3). Advent is not about perfection. It is about preparation. It asks not for a perfect home, but a willing heart. Not a flawless life, but an open one. We make plans for Christmas, meals, gatherings, work party's, presents, but Scripture gently reminds us, nothing changes until the heart changes. Advent has always been a season of holy waiting, an invitation to slow down, to breathe and to make room for the quiet voice of God that so often gets lost in the noise of everyday life. Yet waiting isn’t always easy. We wait for healing, for reassurance, for clarity, for peace. We wait for things to change or soften or mend. Sometimes we even wait for ourselves to catch up, to let go, or to begin again.

Waiting in the dark

Advent always begins in darkness. Not the darkness of despair, but the darkness before dawn, the kind where the eyes adjust and begin to see what was always there. Advent begins in the dark for a reason. The first candle is lit before the room is bright because God meets us in the not-yet, the uncertain, the unfinished. We don’t have to pretend the world is tidy before inviting Christ in. He is comfortable entering the mess. This year, I’ve found myself deeply aware of how fragile we can feel when life becomes heavy and that many of us carry heavy burdens such as financial pressures, anxiety and uncertainty, loneliness, strained relationships, grief, global conflict, fear for our world, people sleeping in cars, hostels, doorways. When global crises, climate change, wars, displacement unfold, how do we remain hopeful?

Yet Advent begins precisely because of this pain. Hope does not exist in the absence of grief. As the Scriptures remind us, “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18). How do we speak of light in such a time? How do we whisper hope into a weary world? Advent answers gently, 'Hope' is born precisely where hope seems impossible. “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” (Isaiah 9:2). Advent asks us to see reality, to grieve deeply, and then to allow hope to rise. Advent does not deny the darkness. It walks into it with a candle. And yet, it is often in these very places of vulnerability that God draws closest, not with fanfare or answers, but with a gentle presence that simply says, “I am here.” Advent reminds us that God comes to us not in power or perfection, but in smallness, in tenderness, in a Child who knows what it is to cry, to need, to grow. Emmanuel, "God with us," means God with us in our uncertainty, our tiredness, our fears, and our hopes. It means we are never alone, even when life feels overwhelming.

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The sacred art of paying attention

Recently I sat in a waiting room, early, restless, watching the world in its quiet tension. A woman sighed. A man tapped his foot. A child stared at the floor. Every person carried a private story, a private ache. And I thought, Advent is a waiting room for the soul. We are not waiting for gifts or holidays. We are waiting for God and astonishingly, God is waiting for us. “Behold, I stand at the door and knock.” (Revelation 3:20). Waiting changes us. It slows the heart. It softens what has hardened. It invites honesty. In the stillness of Advent, we can finally hear the quiet questions such as 'What is weighing on my heart? Who do I need to forgive? Where have I been blind to suffering? Where is God trying to speak in my life?' These questions aren’t meant to burden us, they are meant to free us.

A moment that changed me

A few years ago, outside a shop, a woman approached me. “Please… can you help me?” I walked past her. Hurried. Distracted. Unthinking. Inside, I paid with a crisp note she might never hold. But I left feeling uneasy and halfway home, the truth hit me like a weight, I had failed to love. I turned the car around, praying she was still there. She was. This time, I listened. We shared coffee. She told me her story about domestic violence, homelessness, loss, courage. She had almost nothing, yet she gave me something priceless as she said to me as I left, “God bless you and keep you.” I drove home in tears. That encounter became my Advent every year, a reminder that compassion is not an idea but a turning-around, a willingness to see another human being with God’s eyes.

The candle that never goes out

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it." (John 1:5). Advent begins not with blazing light, but with a small candle in the dark. It is a reminder that we do not need to see the whole path, only the next step. Sometimes all we can manage is a whisper of hope, a flicker of trust, a moment of stillness. And that is enough. God does not demand certainty from us. Only openness. Only room. Only a willing hopeful heart. The light will grow. It always does. There is a simple Advent story of four candles: Peace, Faith, Love, and Hope. Peace goes out - because people no longer seek peace. Faith goes out - because people trust fear more than God. Love goes out - because hearts become busy or bruised. But Hope remains. And with Hope, all the others can be lit again. “These three remain: faith, hope and love.” (1 Corinthians 13:13). Hope is not optimism. Hope is courage. Hope is resilience. Hope is the flame that refuses to go out. The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” (Isaiah 9:2). The beauty of Advent is in the gradual lighting. One candle this week. Another next week. The light grows slowly, gently, step by step. Sometimes faith feels exactly like that, fragile, flickering, small. But even a tiny flame pushes back the dark. If your hope feels small, trust that God can work with small things. If your courage feels faint, trust that God can strengthen it. If your prayer feels muddled, trust that God hears what you can’t put into words. Darkness does not have the final word. It never has. It never will. Advent is God whispering, “Light it again.”

What kind of people will we be?

This Advent asks us the most important questions: 'What kind of nation or country do we want to be? What kind of communities? What kind of hearts? A country where people walk past suffering? Or a country where people turn around? A heart that fears scarcity? Or a heart that shares its “good things”? A world lit by anger, noise, and division? Or a world lit by small, stubborn acts of tenderness?'

The choice is ours and Advent gives us a whole season to choose well. Advent is a season of waiting, a season of hope, a season of awakening. It asks us to prepare not just our homes, but our hearts. It challenges us to grieve, to hope, to love, and to act. The weary world waits, but in our actions, however small, we bear light into darkness. May this season guide us to greater compassion, patience, and courage. Let us make our communities, our country, our world a place of hope, care, and love. “Ruben A. Alvez wrote, ‘Hope is hearing the melody of the future; faith is dancing to it today.’’ This Advent, let us hum hope, let us dance the divine, and let us bear the Christ-child in the lives of all we meet.

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Thought for the week

As your thought for the week, please give ourselves permission to rest for a moment. To set aside the pressure to be strong or sorted. To let the light of Advent be just enough for the next small step. And to trust that God is already at work in the quiet spaces of our lives, shaping something new, something gentle, something full of promise.

This Advent, let us resolve to awaken to the needs around us. Make yourself a sacred space at home, a place for prayer, reflection, and meditation. Light a candle and ask, 'Where can I bring light in the darkness? How can I extend hope, faith, peace, and love to those in need?' Then choose one person, family or group to bless with unexpected kindness. It could be a neighbour who lives alone, someone you’ve avoided, a friend who is struggling, a person you need to forgive, a stranger who needs compassion, a charity helping those on the margins. Let your Advent begin not with decoration, but with transformation. Let one small act of love be the candle that lights another. Let your heart be a vessel of Christ’s light, and your hands instruments of God’s compassion. Let me leave you with one of my prayers for Advent, "God of the waiting and the weary, as the darkness deepens, kindle in us the light of hope. Open our eyes to those who feel unseen. Soften our hearts where they have grown cold. Calm the fears that whisper in the night. Give us courage to love, patience to wait, and tenderness to begin again. May this Advent awaken in us a new compassion, a deeper stillness, and a hope strong enough to share. Come, Lord Jesus. Come into our hearts, our homes, our country, and our world. Amen."