reflections on Advent from a hospital room (months before Advent)

Something I wrote during my third night in the hospital, room 521…

I’ve been standing at the window with all of the lights off — as dark as the room can get. I’m waiting for a helicopter. I’ve been waiting for what seems like half an hour already, but there’s still no helicopter insight. I know it’s there; I can hear it. In fact, I’ve been listening to it for quite a while now. Nevertheless, here I stand… in the dark… in the quiet… in my hospital room. Well, it’s not completely quiet, for I can hear the sounds of my own IV pumping fluids into my veins. I’ve been hearing them rhythmically for three days now, helping me to regain my health. And then, there’s that sound of the chopper coming. I know it’s coming, for I can hear it. I just can’t yet see it. I think it’ll be here any minute, but still I wait… in the dark… in the silence — save for these sounds of promised health. Both: rhythmic sounds, steady and strong. But the sound of this elusive descending bird grows stronger and stronger with every passing second. This helicopter is coming to bring rescue, to bring hope, to bring life. But when it will get here I do not know. All I know is that it is indeed coming… coming soon… bringing rescue, bringing hope, bringing life. I look to the ground where it should arrive and wait. I look to the heavens from whence it is coming and wait. I look. I wait. It is coming. It is almost here. Soon, surely soon it will descend with its rescue mission, its longed-for hope, its much-needed life. Ten minutes have now passed, and it dawns upon me how reminiscent of Advent this waiting, this longing, this expectancy, this eagerness, this anticipation is. I just want to see the helicopter land. I know that it’s bringing hope to some family. It’s on a singular mission: to rescue someone who’s desperate. Its pilot is feverishly though cooly trying to snatch life from the clutches of death. So I wait… and keep looking. And I pray for this family wishing for hope. I pray for this one who’s desperate for rescue. I pray for this life that is encompassed by death. And so the Church militant must do as It awaits its Lord’s second Advent, its Redeemer’s return. We must wait in darkness. We must wait in silence, yet with the rhythmic hums of renewing health and eager anticipation. And we must pray, ceaselessly. “You must watch and pray,” said our gloriously descended Partridge concerning His second Advent during His first. That steel bird still has yet to land, and another ten minutes have passed. I’m almost, almost ready to give up hope, to call it a night, to think that it’s just not coming. But I know that it is. I hear the sounds amidst the silence. I see the prepared, awaiting lights on the pad below amidst the darkness. Surely, it is coming quickly. Soon…

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About Adam Godbold

husband, father, pastor, and more View all posts by Adam Godbold

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