by Arnold Ytreeide

Candle wax gently wraps itself 'round the needles of a fir wreath. A paper house hides unknown treasures behind little paper windows. A small boy emerges from the woods wet-footed and runny-nosed, dragging evergreen branches twice his size.

Images of My House at Advent time. My House. The house that childhood audacity allowed me to claim as my own. The house where parents were tolerated as long as they kept in mind that they were only there, after all, to attend to my happiness.

The house where I was the small boy emerging from the woods.

Advent at My House meant busy preparations. The evergreen branches I was sent to fetch, mother lovingly formed and decorated: a wreath for the front door, a swag above the fireplace, another wreath to hold five special candles. Elves climbed the staircase railings, plastic bells hung from the dining room light, a village glowed red, blue, green and yellow in a corner of the living room. And a little sprig of greenery hung from the kitchen doorway causing my father and mother to "smooch" every time they passed under it. Yuck!

But mostly Advent at My House meant my sisters and I taking turns lighting those five special candles in that special wreath each evening, then reading, by only the glow of those candles, the "secret" messages behind the little windows of that paper house. Combined, those messages formed, of course, the story of the birth of Christ as told in the Gospel of Luke. The candles we lit, and even the circle of evergreen forming the wreath, glowed with symbolism and meaning, though most of that was lost on a little boy with a still-runny nose. My father would talk a little, my mother would pray, then it was off to bed.

I didn't know it, of course, but what we were doing there in My House was observing a centuries old rite. As early as 381 A.D. the Council of Saragossa decreed that all Christians should fast and pray in preparation for the celebration of Christ's birth. Gregory the First put Advent in its final form when he mandated that it start the fourth Sunday before Christmas.

Since then many traditions have become a part of Advent in the world's cultures. The five candles we lit at My House, and in most Western churches, represent the major themes of Christmas: three purple ones remind us to be penitent, the pink "Bethlehem" candles symbolizes the joy we have in the Christ child, and the large white candle in the center symbolizes the purity and love of Christ. The circle of the wreath and the evergreen branches under the candles represents eternal life in God.

Still, whatever form the celebration takes, the only really important tradition is the one that compelled my parents to gather their three children each night of Advent: focusing on the Christ of Christmas. In their wisdom, my parents didn't try to deny us the Christmas fun of the secular world. Gifts under the tree came from "Santa," "Jingle Bells" was sung along with "Silent Night," and reindeer were often sighted in the Christmas Eve sky. But we all knew, thanks to my parents, that these were just the fictional side of Christmas, something our imaginations played with for fun. We knew, thanks to my parents, that the truth of Christmas could only be found in Baby Jesus, the only Son of the Father, come to earth to show us the love of God.

God. He's been my best friend ever since I was five, since He passed the Test of Faith I gave Him. One of my toys had broken, a little metal boat trailer that hooked to the back of my Tonka truck. Carefully I lay the two halves together under my bed, fitting the parts of the break as tightly as I could. Just to make things easy for God. I prayed, "God, if you'll fix my trailer I'll believe in you forever." Then I went outside to play.

I gave God a good fifteen minutes, just to be sure He had enough time to work His miracle. Then I returned to my room, lifted the bedspread, and picked up my trailer.

Both halves.

With a sigh that betrayed the fact that I had hoped but not really believed in miracles, I sat cross-legged on the floor with half a toy in each hand and said aloud, "That's okay God. I'll believe in you anyway."

Ever since then, I have.

But self-indulgence pretty well describes the next thirty years of my life. I wanted to be a cop, rather than going to seminary like I thought I should, so I went out and worked as a cop for ten years. I also loved the medium of television and spent many years writing, producing and directing. In my work, and just for fun, I traveled the world: Moscow, Rome, Berlin, Prague, Budapest, San Juan. I dove the Mediterranean, skied the Alps, beached in Jamaica and hiked Athens.

I even visited Bethlehem once.

I had a thousand thousand fascinating experiences and worked with a thousand fascinating people: Chi Chi Rodriguez, Julius Erving, Mayor David Dinkins, Bob Costas, Bill Cosby.

But in all my self-seeking self-indulging self-centered life I could not find the one thing I told God I couldn't -- wouldn't -- live without. I would give up everything else, I kept telling Him, but He had to give me a wife.

Partly it was the Holy Spirit, I'm sure, chiding me from within. Partly it was the studies in religion I had kept up whatever else I was doing, even to the point of earning a second degree in theology. But mostly it was regret for the pain my self-indulgence had caused others that finally made me realize what "God's Love" really means: giving up everything selfish, not just for God, but for everyone else as well.

I saw it coming -- the point at which I would surrender all -- but it took a bit of time. I even mapped it out for a friend once, over burgers and Cokes. I charted for him how I was moving to a definite time when I would quit thinking only of me. But it's a tough decision. One that takes a lot of sacrifice.

Finally, overcome by the selflessness of God's love, and overcoming my own doubt that His love is truly sufficient, I gave in. "Alright Lord, I'll live alone for the rest of my life," I prayed. "I understand now that I don't need a wife to make me feel secure. The knowledge that you know me best and love me most is security enough for me."

Three days later, I met Elsie.

A widow with two children, she, too, had just determined that God intended her to live out her life alone. Though I didn't know it at the time, she too had surrendered completely a few days before, and had told God she could be happy if it were just she and He forever. "I'll raise my children by myself," she had prayed. "If that's what you want."

Strange thing about God. As soon as you quick demanding a thing, He gives it back to you ten-fold. And in the months that followed, Elsie, Jonathan, Jessica and I discovered just how much God can give back. We grew as a family together, and the four of us were married in God's presence one sunny June Saturday.

The summer after we started dating, Elsie told me that their family tradition had always been to celebrate Advent with the children. But she always had trouble finding good Advent material and wondered if, maybe, I would like to write something for them?

I agreed, of course, and set out to research the holiday I hadn't thought of in thirty years. I discovered that Advent isn't just a time of preparation for Christmas. It's a three-fold celebration of the "advent" of God to humanity in the history of Israel, His day-to-day "advent" of Himself in our personal lives, and the eventual "advent" of his second coming to earth. God in our past, God in our present, God in our future.

Armed with this research, I set out to write a little story for our own Advent celebration, about a ten-year-old shepherd boy in 4 B.C. Palestine. A shepherd boy who is separated from his family, and sets out in search of them. Jotham's Journey I called it, and each night I'd read another episode by candlelight. The children would gasp and their eyes open wide in wonder as Jotham's adventures led him through the Christmas story. Then we'd sing a carol together, Elsie would pray for each of us, and the children would make their way to bed by candle light.

A publisher bought the rights to Jotham's Journey the following year, and the storybook came out the next Christmas. But the real story is that God brought a self-indulgent man to his knees, and gave to him a more abundant life. More than anywhere, this is reflected in the dedication to the book. "For Jonathan and Jessica," I wrote. "My Children."

Candle wax gently wraps itself 'round the needles of a fir wreath. A paper house hides unknown treasures behind little paper windows. The four-of-us return wet-footed and runny-nosed, dragging an evergreen tree twice as tall as could possibly fit in our living room.

Images of My House at Advent time. No, not My House. My Home. A home where my job is to create a place two children can call their own. A home where all I care about in the world is the happiness of my family. A home where those two children call me "Dad."

A home where we celebrate the Advent of God in our past, God in our future, and God so very much in our day-to-day present.

May your time of Advent be full of the love and mercy of our selfless God.