The land of the Wayanad district, in the southern Indian state of Kerala, seems to have learnt contemplation long before we did. Gentle hills fold into misty valleys, forests stand as ancient monks at prayer, and fertile plateaus stretch patiently under open skies. Perched in the Western Ghats of Kerala, Wayanad enjoys a cool, steady climate, and December arrives like a whispered invitation. Mornings and evenings wear mist like a shawl, as if the earth itself is observing Advent too, waiting, watching, and refusing to hurry Christmas.
To be born in such a place and grow up celebrating Christmas there was to learn faith through the senses. Advent was not a background season; it was a full-time occupation. Alarm clocks were unnecessary; elders were far more reliable. Daily Eucharistic celebrations were strongly “encouraged,” which, translated freely, meant we showed up. The FCC Sisters (Franciscan Clarist Congregation) and the parish priest had a divine gift for attendance-taking. Rewards awaited the faithful, and so we braved the cold mornings, wrapped in sweaters and sleepiness, convinced that holiness increased in proportion to the difficulty of waking up early. We counted the days of Advent like spiritual overachievers. Quietly proud of our discipline and loudly proud when our names were noticed.
But Advent was never reduced to numbers. It was a season of shaping hearts. The parish priest and the sisters worked gently yet firmly, preparing the community for Christmas. Young and old competed for space in the parish church. There was joy in squeezing into pews, joy in standing longer than planned, joy even in mild discomfort. After all, if God could choose a manger, surely, we could manage a little inconvenience. Advent taught us that love requires room, and room is rarely made without effort.
In our small village of barely thirty-five families, Christmas belonged to everyone. Carols filled the air as children and adults moved from house to house carrying Baby Jesus. We had only a few songs, and we sang them repeatedly, yet no one complained. Voices blended, shyness dissolved, and even those who claimed they “couldn’t sing” somehow found their voice when the story of Bethlehem was told.
One memory from those evenings remains especially tender: the veneration of Baby Jesus. I waited eagerly for the group to reach our home. When the Baby was brought, He was ours, if only for a moment. Each of us gazed at Him, lingering as though time might stretch itself out of courtesy. He was a sight to behold. His arms were open as if the cold itself had been invited in. The night was harsh, yet He lay undisturbed, gazing quietly at the world He had entered. Though poorly clothed, He did not resist the cold, choosing instead to share fully in the vulnerability of human life. In that fragile stillness, He seemed to teach that warmth is not always born of blankets, but of love freely given. What did that little Babe think of us human beings? I longed to hold Him in my arms, a desire I never voiced. Instead, I spoke to Him silently, sharing my dreams and childhood concerns that felt very large at the time. To me, that tiny Baby carried the power to make everything right. In His stillness, I found reassurance; in His smallness, I sensed profound authority.
Years have passed, and that admiration has only deepened. Still, that same image continues to remain in my heart. Earlier, I narrated endless stories to Him. Now, it is He who speaks. The gentle Baby no longer smiles silently alone. His concern reaches beyond my personal world to the wounded edges of humanity. They include the innocent children, the poor, the marginalised, and the forgotten. The mystery of the Incarnation unfolds slowly before a world fractured by war, division, and loud certainty.
Through this mystery, He continues to teach us an inconvenient truth: power is not selfishness dressed in confidence, but selfless love clothed in humility. Christmas reminds us that God chose vulnerability over victory and presence over prestige. In the noise and busyness of modern life, He still speaks softly and persistently. He assures us that He has come to stay with us, especially in our fragile places. He is Emmanuel, God-with-us, not only in the manger of Bethlehem, but in every waiting heart that dares to make room.
May we learn again to listen. May Advent slow our steps, soften our hearts, and teach us once more how to welcome a God who arrives quietly and stays.
