The Joy Before the Joy

Today is the third Sunday of Advent.

A quiet Sunday. A perfect one.

The first snow has fallen—soft and gentle—covering the world like icing sugar. Puderzucker. From my desk, I look out over the Long Island Sound. Everything is white, calm, and still. The water is quiet. The sky feels close. Time seems to slow down.

On our Advent wreath, the third candle is lit. Christmas is almost here.

Growing up in Germany, Advent was never only about preparation—it was about waiting with meaning. There are words in German that carry feelings we don’t easily translate into English—words that describe states of being more than actions.

One of them is Vorfreude.

Vorfreude means more than anticipation. It is the joy before the joy—the quiet happiness that comes not from having something, but from knowing it’s on its way. In a world that rushes toward outcomes, Vorfreude invites us to linger in the becoming. It reminds us that waiting itself can be rich, beautiful, and alive.

Another word is Zweisamkeit.

Literally, it means “togetherness of two,” but its meaning is more profound. It speaks of intentional closeness—shared presence without distraction. Not about crowds or conversation, but the quiet choice to truly be with someone: listening, noticing, simply being there.

My husband is sitting in front of my desk, quietly reading. At one point, he glances back. Our eyes meet. We smile. No words are needed. At that moment, Zweisamkeit becomes tangible—connection without interruption, closeness without explanation.

And then there is Geborgenheit.

Perhaps the hardest to translate, Geborgenheit is the feeling of being held by life. It is safety, warmth, trust, and belonging—all at once. The quiet assurance that you are protected, that you are not alone, that you are exactly where you’re meant to be.

As I sit here, watching the snow settle and the water rest, I feel all three—Vorfreude, Zweisamkeit, and Geborgenheit—woven together.

Advent reminds me that reflection does not require answers. It requires presence. The third candle does not rush us forward; it gently invites us inward.

To pause. To breathe. To notice what is already here.

Perhaps this season is not about doing more—but about feeling more, about allowing stillness to speak. About trusting that what we are waiting for will arrive in its own time.

Today, the world feels quiet enough to listen.

And that, too, is a gift.