The other day I watched my neighbor and her son untangle their outdoor lights and begin draping them over the bushes. My lovely autumn display is still on the porch even if a squirrel or rabbit made a feast of that one little gourd. Inside, my vintage pilgrim candles are lined up on the sideboard.

I am always conflicted when Thanksgiving weekend ends on the first Sunday of Advent. After learning my lesson about Advent candles a few years back, I have an heir and a spare—at least I think I do.

"We need Advent candles," I announced to my husband the other day. "I gave away the spare to Lois last year."

He's fairly certain we gave away the heir and kept the spare. We'll find out this weekend.

I prefer more well-defined markers—well, at least a week—between Thanksgiving and Advent. Just getting into the Thanksgiving mood and then it's over. We give thanks, take a breather, and then move on to more important holiday tasks such as bringing up the Christmas bins from the basement and checking the strings of outdoor lights to see how many blue or white ones we need this year. And the tree.

What if the lines between Thanksgiving and Advent are intentionally blurred, and that day of thanks spills over to Advent, but not the way we expect.

What if thanks for blessings of everything going well (read: according to my plans) turn into thanks for the promise of light in the darkness? What if the Truth really is for all people in all situations. What if thanks for provision or success turn into cries for come, oh, come, Emmanuel and set us free from cancer, family conflict and unemployment? What if thanks for answered prayer just the way we had hoped turn into thanks for waiting for the fullness of time? Can thanks and waiting peacefully coexist?

I think of the homeless person stopping by church and waiting patiently to speak with one of our pastors. What about the family whose member is in the midst of an experimental medical treatment. The refugee moms and dads with their children coming to church for English lessons. Women escaping abuse through Naomi's House. The kids in Englewood. The wealthy executive anticipating a bonus that turns out year after year to not satisfy.

Now when he heard that John had been arrested, he withdrew into Galilee. And leaving Nazareth he went and lived in Capernaum by the sea, in the territory of Zebulun and Naphtali, so that what was spoken by the prophet Isaiah might be fulfilled:

“The land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali,
    the way of the sea, beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles—
the people dwelling in darkness
    have seen a great light,
and for those dwelling in the region and shadow of death,
    on them a light has dawned.”

Tomorrow, after Sunday dinner, we'll light the first Advent candle, the Promise Candle, and I am going to leave the vintage pilgrim candles on the sideboard, purposely blurring the lines, purposely giving thanks that the Savior has come and is with us no matter what.