Advent is my favorite time of year. I like the lights, the trees, the robust blooms of red all around (even if they’re fake). I like the pink and purple candles in the Advent wreath (where else do you see pink candles?). The whole place just feels good. And that’s important when bad news is everywhere.

But more than the decorations, I love going to church to see the people, since I am not particularly outgoing, I’m embarrassed to admit. I don’t know most of the people. But I love seeing them anyway. There’s the youngish gentleman in the front row who scares the little kids. He wears a bandana around his head and yells frequent, random nonsensical words. I don’t know if he actually hears what the pastor says, but Sunday after Sunday he comes and sits alone in the front. No one sits next to him.

Then there’s Bill. He sits three rows behind me. I know Bill because his wife was in the same nursing home my father was in two years ago. She had a beautiful head full of white silk hair. After fifty some years of marriage to Bill, she died recently. Bill comes to church…