“Again” is a small word, but it carries a holy ache.
Every Advent, the story comes back to us again:
a promise first whispered in a garden,
a light flickering in the darkness,
a Child laid in a borrowed manger.
Again, we wait.
Again, we hope.
Again, we light candles against long nights.
At first, “again” can feel repetitive — like we’ve heard this story before, like we should have grown past our struggles by now. Yet Advent teaches us that God is not tired of returning to us. God is not bored of beginning again.
We live in a world that often glorifies progress over patience, speed over stillness. But Advent is an act of quiet rebellion: we pause, we breathe, we wait again. Not because nothing has changed, but because our hearts need reminding. Our souls need rehearsal. Our lives need re-centering.
“Again” is not failure.
It is mercy.
God comes again into tired hearts.
Into messy families.
Into troubled churches.
Into anxious minds.
Into a world still cracked open by grief and longing.
And we, too, are invited to begin again:
To forgive again.
To trust again.
To pray again.
To believe again that light is stronger than dark.
Advent is not about pretending everything is new — it is about discovering that hope is renewable. That grace does not expire. That love is not exhausted by repetition.
Christ comes again, not because we forgot,
but because we need to remember.
And so we light the candle — again.
We sing the carols — again.
We tell the story — again.
Not out of habit,
but out of hope.
Again, the Light is coming.
Again, the Word is near.
Again, God chooses to dwell with us.
And somehow…
this time, it is just as needed, just as holy,
just as new.
Inner Altar 