Third Tuesday of Advent: Lingering Place
Remember your mercy, O Lord, and your steadfast love, for they have been from of old… All the paths of the Lord are steadfast love and faithfulness, for those who keep his covenant and his testimonies.
—Psalm 25:6, 10
I’ve been working in campus ministry for 25 years—longer than most college students have been alive.
I joined in 2000—Y2K, the year we thought everything would come crashing to a standstill. (In case you forgot—it didn’t!). I served on campus for the first half of my time, and since becoming a mom, I’ve been in a support role.
While some days it feels like I’ve been doing this for 25 years, other days it only feels like about half that. That’s the strange thing about the passing of time; a day can feel like a year, and a year can feel like a day.
It’s a bit like Advent.
During Advent, time and space can feel stretched. We find ourselves in an in-between spot—looking back to when Jesus was born and also looking forward to when all things will be made new at his second coming.
If Advent were a place, I think it would be referred to as a “thin place”— a place where heaven and earth seem to meet and we’re able to catch a glimpse of the divine.
I was blessed this past year to experience this kind of place in my own life.
In May, I partnered with the CCO’s advancement department to help plan and lead a women’s trip to England and Wales. It had been over a decade since I found myself in a leadership role like this. I was both excited and anxious about stepping back into this level of responsibility, but I jumped in with both feet and am sure glad I did!
Over ten days, our travels took us through the Cotswolds to the western coast of Wales, to a remote location called St Davids on the Pembrokeshire coast. This is where I experienced one of those between-heaven-and-earth thin places.
The Pembrokeshire coast is famous for its hiking paths. They hug the coastline and overlook dramatic views of the Irish Sea. On a foggy morning in the middle of our trip, we began a six-mile hike along the coast at St Non’s Chapel and Well, a popular pilgrimage site during medieval times for those who needed healing.
It’s not the kind of well where you drop a bucket down, but more like a spring with large flat stone steps leading down to a natural opening in the side of a hill. For more than 1,500 years, the well has been there. And yes, it still has water.
As we were lingering at the well prior to starting our hike, I took a moment and stepped down into the well. I stood quietly, breathing in the damp earthy air and soaking in the stillness and history of that space, thinking about all of the people who have stood in that same place for more than a millenia.
These people were maybe at their last resort, needing a miracle, a healing for themselves or someone they loved. They sought a sign that something or someone bigger than them cared. Like all of us at some point, they were taking a moment to reach out and hope and pray that maybe, just maybe, the Lord himself would take their hand.
As I was standing there, my friend—an Anglican priest who was traveling with us on the trip—asked if she could bless me. Since I’m your classic Presbyterian, I was like “Wha?” And she reiterated, “Can I bless you?”
I thought about it.
What does it mean to be blessed? To embrace the divine in a way that is different from my normal everyday practices? I knew that the water in that well didn’t hold actual healing properties—but wasn’t there something holy in what it represents? Throughout Scripture, we read about water being used as a physical sign of faith.
So I said yes. I stood in a 1,500-year-old well, being blessed like countless before me had, in that very same spot.
On a foggy morning in western Wales, heaven and earth collided at an in-between place—a thin place. It was a lingering moment, a moment where I wanted to stay and feel the Holy Spirit embracing me.
It was a moment during which I remembered all of the ways the Lord always has been and always will be faithful and steadfast.
And so this Advent, I wonder: Where are you lingering? Where are you experiencing a thin place?
I encourage you to make time to embrace that in-between spot—looking back to the birth of our Savior and looking forward to his return.
—Stephanie Wessel serves the CCO as Assistant Director of the Department of Transformative Opportunities, Logistics and Finance.
—Psalm 25:6, 10
I’ve been working in campus ministry for 25 years—longer than most college students have been alive.
I joined in 2000—Y2K, the year we thought everything would come crashing to a standstill. (In case you forgot—it didn’t!). I served on campus for the first half of my time, and since becoming a mom, I’ve been in a support role.
While some days it feels like I’ve been doing this for 25 years, other days it only feels like about half that. That’s the strange thing about the passing of time; a day can feel like a year, and a year can feel like a day.
It’s a bit like Advent.
During Advent, time and space can feel stretched. We find ourselves in an in-between spot—looking back to when Jesus was born and also looking forward to when all things will be made new at his second coming.
If Advent were a place, I think it would be referred to as a “thin place”— a place where heaven and earth seem to meet and we’re able to catch a glimpse of the divine.
I was blessed this past year to experience this kind of place in my own life.
In May, I partnered with the CCO’s advancement department to help plan and lead a women’s trip to England and Wales. It had been over a decade since I found myself in a leadership role like this. I was both excited and anxious about stepping back into this level of responsibility, but I jumped in with both feet and am sure glad I did!
Over ten days, our travels took us through the Cotswolds to the western coast of Wales, to a remote location called St Davids on the Pembrokeshire coast. This is where I experienced one of those between-heaven-and-earth thin places.
The Pembrokeshire coast is famous for its hiking paths. They hug the coastline and overlook dramatic views of the Irish Sea. On a foggy morning in the middle of our trip, we began a six-mile hike along the coast at St Non’s Chapel and Well, a popular pilgrimage site during medieval times for those who needed healing.
It’s not the kind of well where you drop a bucket down, but more like a spring with large flat stone steps leading down to a natural opening in the side of a hill. For more than 1,500 years, the well has been there. And yes, it still has water.
As we were lingering at the well prior to starting our hike, I took a moment and stepped down into the well. I stood quietly, breathing in the damp earthy air and soaking in the stillness and history of that space, thinking about all of the people who have stood in that same place for more than a millenia.
These people were maybe at their last resort, needing a miracle, a healing for themselves or someone they loved. They sought a sign that something or someone bigger than them cared. Like all of us at some point, they were taking a moment to reach out and hope and pray that maybe, just maybe, the Lord himself would take their hand.
As I was standing there, my friend—an Anglican priest who was traveling with us on the trip—asked if she could bless me. Since I’m your classic Presbyterian, I was like “Wha?” And she reiterated, “Can I bless you?”
I thought about it.
What does it mean to be blessed? To embrace the divine in a way that is different from my normal everyday practices? I knew that the water in that well didn’t hold actual healing properties—but wasn’t there something holy in what it represents? Throughout Scripture, we read about water being used as a physical sign of faith.
So I said yes. I stood in a 1,500-year-old well, being blessed like countless before me had, in that very same spot.
On a foggy morning in western Wales, heaven and earth collided at an in-between place—a thin place. It was a lingering moment, a moment where I wanted to stay and feel the Holy Spirit embracing me.
It was a moment during which I remembered all of the ways the Lord always has been and always will be faithful and steadfast.
And so this Advent, I wonder: Where are you lingering? Where are you experiencing a thin place?
I encourage you to make time to embrace that in-between spot—looking back to the birth of our Savior and looking forward to his return.
—Stephanie Wessel serves the CCO as Assistant Director of the Department of Transformative Opportunities, Logistics and Finance.