Today is the first Sunday of Advent. We light the first of four candles and think ahead to the first week of a liturgical season much of the world ignores.

The word “first” generally has happy connotations: baby’s first step, the first child to graduate from college, buying a first home. Especially back when milestones were harder to achieve, a “first” evinced great joy. Think, too, of the commemorations that have evolved around “firsts” like the bronzing of baby’s first shoe—a practice at odds with today’s throw-away culture.

In an era exploding with superficial milestones, however, “firsts” easily diminish in importance. How can entering first grade seem momentous to a child with several years of school already under his belt? When a closet holds gowns in ascending sizes for faux graduations from preschool, kindergarten, elementary, and middle school, what meaning is left for an actual high-school graduation? No wonder teens increasingly choose to “skip out” on this solemn event.

Formal observances and solemn commemorations tell us where we are in our lives. They mark and magnify the cycles of our human experience. They bring meaning impossible to find elsewhere. As lovely as Advent wreaths are, their strongest value lies in the message they send from their quiet spot on the table or mantel, reminding us of our progression to the holiness of Christmas Eve.

Advent is a long season. It enters quietly, surprising us as we dry stacks of Thanksgiving china or poke around in a refrigerator piled high with leftovers. Advent has its own specific rhythm, built through a cycle of readings and hymns filled with twists and turns. Someone unacquainted with Advent may raise an eyebrow at the stark announcements of John the Baptist, clad in a mantel of camel hair, while shops are slammed by twinkle lights, Jingle Bells, and sugar cookies.

Standing now at the beginning of Advent, let us recall that this lengthy observance offers a real taste of transcendental beauty. “Transcendent” means not only something above or beyond the ordinary, but derives from the Latin verb to “climb over” (transcendere). In a real sense, Advent allows us to climb over many pressures and leave behind a good deal of this world’s frenzied obligations.

For much of my adult life, the mere mention of the word “December” evoked a panic similar to juggling balls covered in straight pins. Partly the panic came from the fact that, as an organist, I faced long rehearsals for Christmas pageants and Christmas Eve services. Partly, the stacks of not-yet taken exams were already filling up my mental dining room table, waiting to be graded. But mostly I succumbed to a false sense of needing to make Christmas “happen” before December 25 arrived. That feeling alone lay on my heart like a stack of wet blankets.

Opening myself to Advent brought an immediate release from most of these worries. The rehearsals and papers did not disappear, but the sense that they competed with celebrating Christmas did. What a thrill it was to rethink the need to decorate the house fully, bake every cookie, wrap all presents, send all cards, and invite the neighbors over before December 25th! To rephrase, I didn’t have to cram the emotional joys of Christmas into a set of weeks already busy with obligations.

So let us embrace the happy peace of Advent and approach that first candle (traditionally lit by the youngest child in the family). As we do, may we not forget those people facing new, difficult “firsts” this year—the sad first of a Christmas without a beloved spouse, grandparent, or child. So many people have lost businesses, experienced termination from a job, or been otherwise displaced from their circle of familial love. While singing an Advent hymn, or reading Scripture, may we also find practical ways to bring comfort to those who, for the first time this year, really need it.