Bringing the light of Advent into our homeschools

 

As Advent begins this line from Ourselves (Vol. 4) means even more to me because…well, I’ll be honest: I have struggled for years to bring Advent into the life of my home in any steady, meaningful way.

 

The longing is always there. The lovely ideas are always there. And then December actually arrives.

 

Christmas concerts pop up. The calendar fills. Packages that will need to be wrapped sit on the dining room table. Someone needs to be driven somewhere. The energy in the house leaps straight from Thanksgiving turkey to Christmas twinkle lights in about twelve minutes.

 

And there I am, holding my unlit wreath, wondering how on earth I’m supposed to gather everyone for something as slow, as spacious, as waiting.

 

Maybe you feel it too—the juggernaut of Christmas roaring in long before you’ve had a chance to prepare your heart, much less shepherd your children into the waiting-with-hope posture Advent invites.

 

I used to think it was just me. But I see it differently now.

 

I grew up, like many of us, shaped far more by the school calendar than the church calendar. Exams and vacations mattered more than feast days and fasts. Christmas meant gifts; summer meant freedom. Advent was mostly a countdown to presents

Allen Kannapell, in an essay on Advent and time, said something that stopped me:

That line felt like an invitation.

For most of our lives, we’ve been trained to race—to fill time, to manage it, to squeeze productivity from every minute. The church calendar asks us to do something radically different: to let time itself be shaped by God’s story. To remember that we are not at the center of things.

Advent does this more sharply than any other season. It asks us to remember both the first coming of Jesus in Bethlehem and His promised second coming. It pulls eternity right into our living rooms and says:

Are you ready to receive the humble Child?
Are you ready to meet the returning King?

That is a tall order on a night in December when the dishes are piled high.

Advent isn’t hard because we’re careless. It’s hard because we’re pulled in ten directions at once. We’re already behind. The season is loud, bright, and demanding.

The world’s calendar is busy.

Advent is slow.

And yet—every so often—a moment breaks through. A stillness. A word from Scripture. A single candle. These become what Kannapell calls “inbreakings of eternity,” small reminders that something holy is pressing against the edges of our days and asking us to look up.

You may not have a wreath ready. You may not have planned anything. But you can always read aloud.

Reading aloud is Advent’s simplest doorway. When you read—even for ten minutes—you invite your children out of chronological time and into sacred time.

Reading slows the pace, the breath. You give them stories of angels and shepherds and prophets. You place before them the holy pattern of waiting, of longing, of the Messiah who comes quietly and transforms everything.

Charlotte Mason understood this better than anyone. She wrote:

“Our holidays cannot be better spent than in teaching our children sympathy for life and all its forms.” (Parents’ Review)

Isn’t that exactly what Advent is?

A season to kindle sympathy, awaken compassion, and prepare the heart for the One who comes to save. Reading aloud does not require doing it “right.” It requires only presence.

If you’re unsure where to begin, here is one lovely option: The Charlotte Mason Institute created a beautiful Advent Calendar of readings and reflections. It’s gentle, simple, and doesn’t overwhelm.

Print it, tuck it into your Bible, or keep it on the kitchen counter. Read one small thing every day—or every few days.

This year, instead of trying to “corral the family,” I’m choosing something simpler: lighting one candle, reading one small passage, and inviting whoever happens to be nearby. No pressure, no perfect gathering—just the gentle act of creating a little space for the Light.

And the truth is, if someone is missing, the light still shines. If the wreath is lopsided (mine always is), the light still shines. If we begin late, the light still shines. Advent is not something we perform; it is something we receive. It is Christ Himself who draws near—quietly, lovingly—whether or not we have our act together.

And that, I think, is the heart of the season.