Sarah lived alone in a small farmhouse at the edge of town — the kind of place where winter settled deep and early. The December evenings came fast, and the cold pressed against the windows like a reminder of everything she felt she lacked: family nearby, the certainty of the future, and the old joy she used to feel at Christmastime.
One night while searching the attic for decorations, she found an old wooden Advent candle holder her grandmother had carved. Four notched spaces for candles. A small engraving on the bottom read: Adventus Domini — The Coming of the Lord.
Her grandmother used to tell her, “Advent isn’t about pretending everything is fine. It’s about expecting Christ to step into the middle of what isn’t fine and bring hope anyway.”
Sarah carried the candle holder downstairs. She lit the first candle and placed it in the window — one small flame fighting against the cold dark. And as she watched it flicker, she remembered something she hadn’t thought of in years: Advent means arrival. Not just the memory of Christ’s first coming, but the promise of His second. A promise that no winter — literal or spiritual — gets the final word.
Over the next few nights, neighbors began to notice the little flame glowing from her window. One evening, a young couple knocked on her door. “We walk past your house every night,” they said. “That candle… it makes us feel like things are going to be okay. We don’t know why.”
Sarah smiled. “Because it means hope is coming. And not just for me.”
The couple came inside, and the three of them talked for a long time — about faith, worry, weary hearts, and what it means that Jesus came to be with us. Not above us. Not far off. With us. Emmanuel.
By the third week of Advent, more candles were lit. Her home glowed with a quiet warmth that didn’t erase her circumstances but somehow reframed them. Sarah found herself praying again — not big fancy prayers, just honest ones: “Lord, come into this. Come into this moment. Come into this season. Come into this home.” And every time she prayed it, she felt something steady settle inside her: He will.
On Christmas Eve, she lit the final candle, and the whole farmhouse shimmered with soft light. Christ had already come once to bring salvation, and He would come again to make all things new — including her fragile, hopeful heart. Advent was no longer just a word. It was a promise she could feel warming the room.
Later that night, as snow began to fall, Sarah placed one more candle in the window — the fifth candle, the Christ candle — bright and unmoving. And for the first time in years, she felt the deep, anchoring truth of Advent:
Christ has come. Christ is here. Christ will come again.
About the Author
Dr. Bill Young is an elder at the Danville SDA church and a professor at Eastern Kentucky University. Having a long-term background in prehospital emergency medicine, he has seen the worst that this world has to offer. In doing so, he has found that turning to the scriptures is a very real refuge. He enjoys exploring the history and geography of Israel during the time that Jesus walked the land.
