Here’s the description of the book, which is available in pocket size, large print, e-book, and bulk shipments:

Prepare for the celebration of Christ’s coming with this popular and inviting annual guide. During the especially busy Advent and Christmas seasons, this book offers brief, down-to-earth reflections that bring prayer and Scripture into everyday life in a thought-provoking and lasting way. Through Mary DeTurris Poust’s reflections on lectionary readings from the weekday and Sunday Masses, readers will grow in their understanding of the word of God. This book will help busy people enrich their prayer life during the seasons of Advent and Christmas.

Pre-order HERE. Thank you!

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As I prepare for an upcoming trip, I’m torn between catching a flight or hopping in the car for a five-hour drive. They’ll take about the same time once you factor in airport time, so I’ve got two good choices. Mary did not have that luxury.

In today’s Gospel, we hear that Mary “set out in haste” to visit and support her cousin Elizabeth, who is herself far into an unlikely pregnancy. That word “haste” almost makes it seem as though this was a quick jaunt, maybe just a few hours by donkey.

Alas, there was nothing quick or easy about what Mary chose to do. It was a dangerous trip, across one hundred miles of rough terrain. She went anyway, trusting that all would be well, and that this visitation was necessary, not just for the physical support it would provide but for the spiritual strength it would foster between the two women and the unborn sons who would go on to change the world.

When Mary arrives, Elizabeth says: “Blessed are you who believe that what was spoken to you by the Lord would be fulfilled.” How often does God speak to us, but we are too afraid to follow the call? It is easier for us to stay firmly rooted in the comfort of the familiar rather than risk a journey into the unknown.

Today we look to Mary and Elizabeth and pray that we, too, will be willing to go in haste to wherever God is leading us.

Mary DeTurris Poust, “Called Into the Unknown,” from the December 2024 issue of Give Us This Day, www.giveusthisday.org (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2024). Used with permission.
Photo by Mary DeTurris Poust

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We live in a goal-oriented society, and in this case, Christmas is the end zone we’re running toward at breakneck speed, hardly looking at what’s going on along the sidelines. But Advent beckons us to stop the madness, to stop the running, to focus on the journey as much as the destination. Advent offers us serenity amid the insanity, with its beautiful interplay of darkness and light, its Scriptural focus not only on the coming of the Christ child but on the second coming of Jesus, and with its quiet but constant insistence that we prepare — not just for a day but for a lifetime, and the next life one.

How do we translate those transcendent ideas into everyday practices? Here are five easy ways to slow down and savor the season:

1. Create rituals. Simple daily rituals can serve as spiritual anchors whenever the secular version of the holiday season begins to suck you in and stress you out. These rituals can be as elaborate or as easy as you choose to make them. If fashioning a Jesse tree out of branches and homemade ornaments depicting scenes from Scripture will make you more stressed, find something simpler, perhaps a traditional paper Advent calendar with little doors that reveal the signs and symbols of the season. And there’s always the Advent wreath, a peaceful, prayerful way to mark the days leading up to Christmas. The glow of its candles, increasing with each week, serves as a visible reminder of the light that comes into our world at Christmas and overcomes the darkness for all time.

2. Practice patience. Advent is about waiting, a concept that’s becoming increasingly unpopular in our world of instant gratification and constant connectedness. We want what we want and we want it now. Advent reminds us that waiting can be a good thing, a time to prepare ourselves, a time to rediscover what’s important, a time to serve those who are not as fortunate. When you are waiting in an endless line at the mall or circling a parking lot fighting for a space, try to be intentional about the way you approach and accept the situation. What if you pray for the woman who just stole your spot? What if you smile at the man who runs back to grab an extra item off the rack while you stand in the check-out line gritting your teeth?

3. Seek out silence. Here’s another challenge for those of us used to the constant buzz of the world around us, whether it’s the TV at home, the radio in the car or the Muzak at the mall. We don’t like silence. It makes us uncomfortable. It feels unproductive. Shouldn’t we be doing something during this quiet time? Not necessarily. Take just five minutes each day to sit in silence. Turn off cell phones, TVs, computer bells and whistles, anything that will distract you, and just be. Chances are that after only one week of daily silence, you’ll be a lot better at #2 on this list. Silence breeds interior peace and exterior calm. Try it and see how five minutes a day can change your Christmas season and your life.

4. Rethink gift-giving. Advertisers tell us we need stuff, lots of stuff to be happy, and our loved ones need lots of stuff, too, preferably wrapped in shiny paper and bows. Before you know it, the shopping and spending and running and wrapping has us wishing the Christmas would just get here already and be over and done. Take back the gift-giving part of this season. Tell family and friends to cut back on the gifts they plan to give you and yours. Give from the heart rather than the wallet. Instead of a gift card, find some one-of-a-kind gift that will surprise and satisfy — if it’s locally made, even better. Rather than an extra video game or doll, give a child a “date” with mom or dad, a special day where they get to go somewhere or do something with a parent without distractions like Facebook or work phone calls or TV. Even gift cards can become heartfelt when done right, say with an offer to tag along on the shopping spree and buy lunch for the two of you.

5. Start close to home. You can’t change the culture, but you can change the way you participate in it. Rather than scold society for the ways it doesn’t live up to the spiritual aspects of this holiday season, do what you can to refocus on Jesus and the Advent journey within your own four walls among your own family. Light a candle and pray before dinner each night. Express gratitude to and for each other. Give your loved ones the gift of your time and your presence. Find a charity that could use some help, whether it’s through donations or volunteer hours. Begin to set your own life to a sacred rhythm, and before you know it people around you will want a piece of what you’ve found. That’s how the culture changes: one heart, one home at a time.

This column originally appeared on the HuffPost religion page on Dec. 2, 2014.

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It’s not always easy to remain curious and joyful when the body is slowing down or maybe even breaking down, when the world around us is full of suffering and uncertainty and downright madness. But if we are willing to approach all that is before us as a lesson to be learned, not in a punitive way but in a heart-opening way, we find a path that is not necessarily easy but calls us forward just the same. It is an approach that reminds me of a T.S. Eliot poem I often use when leading retreats.

In “East Coker,” part of Eliot’s “Four Quartets,” the poet writes:

I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you/Which shall be the darkness of God…I said to my soul, be still and wait without hope/For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love/For love would be love of the wrong thing; this is yet faith/But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light and the stillness the dancing.

My tattoo.

On the surface, this poem might feel depressing, but on closer inspection these words show us a way to rise up through the mud of this world to the Light that draws us up and out and forward no matter who we are or what we’re facing. To “wait without hope” is not despair, just the opposite. It is to know that when we show up in prayer filled with hope, it is often a hope of our own creation, to suit our own agenda, and achieve a certain outcome. We will be hopeful if all the external criteria are met. When we wait without hope, however, we are fully present before God, allowing God to be God rather than trying to take on that role ourselves, which is what humanity has been trying to do ever since Eve was blamed for the fall.

Our entire spiritual journey is, in a sense, an effort to “get ourselves back to the garden,” as singer/songwriter Joni Mitchell wrote so many years ago. Often, we attempt to do that by trying to force our way through rather than letting the way appear before us according to God’s plans. Especially during difficult times, whether in our personal lives or in the larger world, it can be near-impossible to trust that God has a plan greater than ours and that, in the end, this world is temporary. Our faith gives us the practice of “memento mori,” which means: “Remember you must die.” It’s not meant to be scary or ghoulish, even if it is often accompanied by the image of a skull. It’s meant to ground us in our spiritual reality when this world tries to convince us that what we see in front of us is all that matters.

It seems fitting as we move through the steely gray of late fall, with its chill and encroaching darkness, to wonder how we will ever again find the light to lead us home. As we journey toward Advent, we know from years past that there is a well-worn spiritual path for us to follow, one of expectant waiting, where the light grows day by day, week by week and, with it, our hope.

Mary DeTurris Poust will be leading a free online Advent mini retreat on Friday, Dec. 6, 2-3 p.m. Register here.
This column originally appeared in the Nov. 27, 2024, issue of The Evangelist.

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This is no time for a child to be born,
With the earth betrayed by war & hate
And a comet slashing the sky to warn
That time runs out & the sun burns late.

That was no time for a child to be born,
In a land in the crushing grip of Rome;
Honour & truth were trampled by scorn —
Yet here did the Saviour make his home.

When is the time for love to be born?
The inn is full on the planet earth,
And by a comet the sky is torn —
Yet Love still takes the risk of birth.

Photo by Justin Wolff on Unsplash

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It started in Assisi, when I was walking up a not-too-steep hill to the Basilica of St. Francis with my husband, Dennis, and a large tour group. About halfway up, I stopped, not sure I could continue due to pain in my chest. My husband asked if I wanted to go to the hospital, and I jokingly replied that I’d rather die at the Basilica of St. Francis. I tried to convince myself the discomfort was from jet lag, too many cappuccinos, exhaustion. I promised to see a doctor when I got home, but upon my return I resumed life uninterrupted. Until the pain returned when I was simply rushing to my car one evening. No travel woes to blame.

What happened over the course of the next few days was scary, but I could not help but feel grateful every step of the way — to doctors, nurses and lab techs, to myself for being willing to recognize an issue, and, of course, to God. It turned out that chest pain wasn’t jet lag but an 80 percent blockage in my largest artery. It was a heart attack waiting to happen, likely a fatal one. Thanks to a walk-in cardiology clinic and doctors who took my complaints and family history seriously despite the fact that every test showed I was perfectly healthy and at low risk for cardiovascular disease, I got the scan result (from a CT scan with contrast, aka dye) that showed quite clearly all was not well, at least not in one 9 millimeter section of the artery historically known as the “widow maker.” By the end of the week, I had a shiny new stent and a new lease on life.

A lot of people have messaged me privately asking me about my symptoms, I think because what happened to me can happen to any of us. And my best answer is to say: Know your body, listen to your heart (literally and figuratively), trust your gut, and be your own best advocate. But even with all that advice, we can’t save ourselves from the inevitable, maybe just put it off for a time, hopefully a long time.

We all know this hard truth intellectually. We hear it again and again in Scripture, especially during Advent when we focus not only on the coming of the Christ Child in a manger in Bethlehem but on the second coming of Christ at the end of time. But the fact is, we often don’t let it sink down into our souls. For most of us, counting down the days to Christmas and focusing on a baby in swaddling clothes is a lot more comforting than focusing on the end of the world as we know it and what it will mean for each one of us.

Although I am fully recovered and, in fact, feel better than ever, knowing how close I came to my personal version of “end times” has made me a little more willing to ponder the reality we often want to avoid. I recently pulled out a book on memento mori, Latin for “remember you must die.” It’s a practice in which we contemplate daily our finite time on earth and examine how we are living our lives and where we might need to make some adjustments, spiritually and otherwise. It may not be as jolly as twinkling lights strung from the eaves or Christmas cookies fresh out of the oven, but it has a stark beauty of its own, one that calls us back to our purpose, our prayer life, and our relationship with the One whose Incarnation we prepare to celebrate. Gaudete! Rejoice!

Mary will be guiding a 2024 pilgrimage to Italy with Father Matt Duclos. Visit her page on Select International Tours HERE for more information.

This column ran in the Dec. 14, 2023, issue of The Evangelist.
Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash.

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If we surrender to what is offered to us during Advent and give ourselves permission to slow down, we suddenly find life set to a new rhythm, a sacred rhythm that urges us to savor the preparations for the feast rather than just the feast itself. As we walk step by step toward Christmas, we are continually reminded that the journey is the goal, because this is about so much more than a moment that comes and goes in the blink of an eye. If we are paying attention, this journey will coax us along, reminding us that when the bows and ribbons are discarded later this season and the tree is brought to the curb, the inner place where we dwell in silence and the Person who dwells there with us is eternal. If this season does what it is meant to do, we will be left with an internal glow that shines on long after the ornaments and singing Santas are packed away.

While that sounds nice, we all know it’s not so simple. It can be difficult to keep that light shining through all the challenges and frustrations and annoyances that come our way day in and day out. It’s so much easier sometimes to slip back into dissatisfaction, to take up a poor-pitiful-me position and wonder why God (and everyone we encounter) can’t make it easier for us to be prayerful and patient and peaceful. But that’s not the way life works, and what merit is there in being prayerful if its power only sticks when times are good, right?

I think it comes down to remembering that rejoicing (today or any day) doesn’t mean we have to be happy all the time, outwardly bouncing around with a smile on our face from one moment to the next. To truly rejoice is to remain inwardly joyful even when times are hard, because our joy isn’t in things of this world; our joy is in God and what God has done for us.

When I was on an Advent retreat several years ago, we sang a beautiful Taize chant:

“Our darkness is never darkness in your sight. The deepest night is clear as the daylight.”

The play of light against darkness is so apparent during this season, when the ever-increasing glow of the Advent wreath stands in stark contrast to the thick cover of night outside our windows. During these turbulent and troubling times, it is especially easy to become so laser-focused on the darkness that we don’t see (or choose to ignore) the light shimmering all around us. We can even get into the bad habit of seeking out the darkness and stewing there. It becomes familiar and comforting, despite being painful and fear-inducing.

Throughout Advent we hear the messengers of Scripture reminding our ancestors in faith — Zechariah, Joseph, Mary — not to be afraid. Because God is with us, not just during Advent, not just on Christmas, but through every high and low of our year and our life. Once we realize there is no darkness with God, everything becomes clear, and we shine like the sun, even at midnight.

This column originally appeared in the Dec. 8, 2022, issue of The Evangelist.

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The image of John the Baptist in today’s Gospel stands in stark contrast to the secular holiday images that bombard us from every side during this season.

Camel hair for clothes and locusts for food are a far cry from a red velvet suit and a plate of cookies, and, yet, here we are, trying to navigate between two very different worlds with two very different messages. Ho, ho, ho, you brood of vipers!

This Sunday’s readings can be a tough sell. We listen, we hear, but it’s hard not to feel just a little bit disappointed to be handed threshing floors and unquenchable fires as we decorate our Jesse trees and open the doors on our Advent calendars.

And while John’s dire warnings may seem out of place in a season of hopeful waiting, if we dive deeper into the readings, we find glimmers of a hope that will outlast anything we might find under the tree come Christmas morning.

For starters we can soothe our jagged souls by spending a little time with St. Paul’s Letter to the Romans, today’s second reading, to offset some of the harshness John is serving out.

In Paul we find endurance and encouragement, harmony and hope. That’s more like it, we want to shout, but the hard truth is that ours is not a faith of either/or but one of both/and. We do not get the harmony and hope without the repentance and refinement through spiritual fire.

We probably should not expect anything less from a God who was willing to break into our world to save us by becoming one of us.

“The Advent mystery in our own lives is the beginning of the end of all, in us, that is not yet Christ,” wrote famed Trappist monk Thomas Merton in his essay “Advent: Hope or Delusion?”

“It is the beginning of the end of unreality. And that is surely a cause of joy! But unfortunately we cling to our unreality, we prefer the part to the whole, we continue to be fragments, we do not want to be ‘one man in Christ.’”

That sounds suspiciously like an updated version of the message John the Baptist brings us today.

This mystery we call Advent, this path through darkness toward light, is not only about preparing the way of the Lord but preparing ourselves for the Lord’s coming — on Christmas, yes, but also at the end of time.

Advent is a season that dwells in both realities. We prepare to celebrate a birth even as we prepare for the end of the world as we know it.

But what does that mean for those of us who are living in the world, cooking dinners (not of the locust variety), buying gifts for family and friends, decorating our house and sipping eggnog?

Can we enjoy those moments of lighthearted joy even as we accept John’s message of repentance? Yes, because Jesus showed us how.

Throughout Scripture we see Jesus attend parties, share meals with friends and find joy in the innocence of children. Ours is not a joyless faith, just the opposite. It is a faith that finds joy even amid suffering, which is no easy thing.

This season of Advent and the Scripture readings that guide our way day by day provide the operating instructions for the difficult task of letting go of our unreality and clinging to the only reality that matters: Jesus Christ.

The rest of the world wants you to blast Mariah Carey around the clock, bake cookies till you drop and spend so much you’ll need six months to dig yourself out of debt. When you think about it, that doesn’t sound all that joyful, does it?

Advent, on the other hand, asks you to slow down, pause, breathe, wait, be. Can’t you feel your shoulders relax as you hear that? If you want a recipe for real joy, skip the world’s version and find what’s hiding in the challenging words of Scripture.

“Our task is to seek and find Christ in our world as it is, not as it might be,” wrote Merton. “The fact that the world is other than it might be does not alter the truth that Christ is present in it and that His plan has been neither frustrated nor changed: indeed, all will be done according to His will.

“Our Advent is a celebration of this hope. What is uncertain is not the ‘coming’ of Christ but our own reception of Him, our own response to Him, our own readiness and capacity to ‘go forth to meet him.’”

In other words: “Prepare the way of the Lord, make straight his paths.”

Turns out John the Baptist is right on time, not only in this season but in this period of history. The world tries to tangle us up in heartbreak and division, but John reminds us in the bluntest of terms that this world holds nothing for us.

We belong to the One who is and was and is to come.

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