Furrows, be glad, though earth is bare,
One more seed is planted there.
Give up your strength the seed to nourish,
That in course the flower may flourish.
                             Advent Hymn: “People Look East”

            Mid-November finds me in the Midwest. Hunkered inside a cabin on my brother’s farm, I watch hickory boughs outside the window sway in the wind. Flurries swirl. Swaths of snow, thin as muslin, drape the ground.
            Tomorrow brings a family wedding and next Sunday ushers in the season of Advent. I am grateful for this place in which to ponder the upcoming season. In a month already cluttered with holiday hype and hustle, this rustic cabin soothes my soul more than the sound of hymns inside a cathedral.  
            I am not alone in holding a deep appreciation for Advent. A revered image in the homes of my Hispanic parishioners, for instance, is the expectant Mother of the Lord seated on a donkey being led by St. Joseph. These statues often accompany Posada processions that reenact the search for lodging in Bethlehem as Advent draws to a close.
            The theme of travel also opens the season with gospel readings of a wild-eyed John the Baptist shouting, “Prepare a highway for our God!” For this Texas priest, the prophetic cry conjures up images of forlorn towns along the once-famous Route 66, reminding me to make room in the sorry motel of my soul for the Savior of the world.
            This year’s journey home has yielded yet more insights into Advent’s road trip motif. Each drive that I take to town involves miles of overlapping memories and places: creeks where I trapped muskrats, woods where I split logs, fairgrounds where I showed Holstein heifers. The end result is a four-wheel-drive lurch out of the muck of my usual preoccupation.
            Gaining traction on the bank of my past makes me want to whoop for the present. Joined together—memories of the past, gratitude for the present—creates within me an exhilarating, hold-your-breath kind of hope for what lies ahead in Heaven.
            Such is the nature of Advent, a time when time itself melts like snow on the rumbling hood of a flatbed truck.