When I take an extended walk or hike, there is more preparation involved if I want it to be an injury-free success. Backpack, enough water, a snack. Trekking poles. Good socks and shoes. Maybe some petroleum jelly around the ankles and toes to prevent blisters. Downloading a trail map. I’m ready.
In the cycle of the church year, Advent is a season of readiness, far beyond the readying of holiday decorations, baked goods, choir and pageant rehearsals, and gift procurements. It is a season that invites us to reassess our values and priorities and refocus on what is most important.
My spouse is three months into a cancer diagnosis and chemotherapy. Life and its priorities have shifted dramatically. Readiness nowadays means keeping up with prescription refills, having a bag and cooler full of support supplies ready the night before a chemo infusion day, and readying for the side effects that come in the wake of each infusion.
In the biblical story of the wise and foolish maidens, half were “ready” for the bridegroom and half were not. It is a story of contrasts that some preachers use to scare or shame us into repentant readiness. There is some theological merit to that, but for our household this year, I am attending to savoring each day and each season as if it could be my last. I am a cancer survivor myself, now considered cured, but that diagnosis 17 years ago shifted how I view the rest of my life. Each day is a gift of grace. My decision to retire early, at the age of 62, was based on some intentional spiritual discernment I did over the course of a couple of years. That readiness helped me feel confident and (mostly) guilt-free over shifting my primary vocation from priest to husband. I did not know in advance how profound and important that shift would become as we received the devastating cancer diagnosis this fall. My spouse’s oncologist is encouraging and hopeful about the short-term prognosis, but we know epidemiologically there is still tremendous uncertainty regarding recurrence and long-term outcome. As such, our readiness is refocused to finding joy and gratitude each day in the midst of such vast uncertainty.
One of my spouse’s successful coping strategies has been to focus intently on hope. Fear and grief are still around, but they’re in the back seat with hope at the wheel and gratitude in the front passenger seat. She also relies on her strong and vast community of support. There are hundreds of people praying for her and us, sending cards, bringing by food and calling. It is a journey with tremendous resources.
When I walked across Spain on the Camino de Santiago, I had tremendous support resources along the way. Every small town had inexpensive or even free hostels. Every pharmacy sold blister aids. Fellow pilgrims treated each other to foot massages or attended to wounds. And readiness was part of the daily routine: readying one’s backpack each night before bed so you could hit the trail early. Readiness always helps the journey, even when the journey is rough, perhaps especially when the journey is rough.
In this season of our lives, we have two additional readiness items on the agenda each day: taking a walk together and taking a drive somewhere. The walk sometimes doesn’t happen, especially during chemo week, or it may only be to the end of the block, but it is a goal to keep my spouse moving (slowly) down the path of healing. The drive gives her a change of scenery, something we learned to do once a week during Covid isolation.
When I walk, part of my spiritual readiness is to try to be intentionally open and “ready” for the unexpected, even on a routine walk around our neighborhood. I ready for unexpected delights; small things I might not notice if I weren’t being mindfully more aware: birdsong, light in the trees, the sound of wind filtering through crisping fall leaves, the smile and greeting of another walker.
There is always something we can discover that invites joy and gratitude. Always. We may just have to search for it and be ready for it to bless us.