Many years ago, in the month of November—just one week before Advent began—love saved my life.

In fact, the reason that I'm even here today, doing the work of God, is because someone audaciously chose to venture beyond the comforts of their church walls and consistently reflect the love of God to those on the streets. This type of love was welcoming, accepting, and free of judgment. It looked like relationship building—like coming alongside with more listening than there ever was talking. It looked far less like preaching and more like a hot chocolate and a donut. This reimagined, out-of-the-box display of God's love changed my life forever.

It’s hard to write about joy right now. In my own city, homelessness is on the rise and we have already had two people freeze to death on the streets before the full arrival of winter. Food insecurity has doubled, if not tripled. Loneliness and depression are at an all-time high. COVID-19 is not quite done with us yet. These harsh realities in my own city are mirrored by the mass decimation of Palestinians in Gaza and the displacement of millions in Sudan… meanwhile I am just trying to get along with my extended family and not swear at the driver who took the parking spot I was eyeing after circling Costco for fifteen minutes.

In 1941, the world was changed forever when a former Belgian Minister of Justice suggested in a radio broadcast that Belgians use a gesture representing the letter V as a sign, a rallying emblem for victory and freedom during the second world war. In doing so, the occupier would see the sign, infinitely repeated around the country, and understand that he is surrounded by an immense crowd of citizens eagerly awaiting his moment of weakness and watching for his failure.

I have never longed for the Christmas season like I have this year. The last few months have been nothing short of gut-wrenching, as we have borne witness to the groans of creation. In this digital era, we are bombarded 24/7 by horrors that our bodies were not meant to hold. Yet, the days wage on, and it is with hopeful expectation we arrive at the doorstep of Advent.

I’ll never forget where I was sitting when I heard those words. It was one of those moments that will forever be etched on the inside of my soul. My brother had been in and out of halfway houses, treatment centers and 5150 holds (involuntary psychiatric hospitalization due to a mental health crisis) for 12 long years, battling the complexities of mental illness and a life lived on the streets. Our family had called every possible lead and was left with silence. But on that day, we got the blaring news.

“We found Terry.”