Vienna, Austria...Schonbrun and the Second Sunday in Advent 2015

Vienna: the second Sunday in Advent 2015—the season of hope and longing.

The sky from my apartment is a pallid gray. A weak winter sun hangs low in the northern sky. Pale winter sunlight silhouettes the long allay of trees in the park across the street.

I bundle forth into the silver chill of this early December afternoon. The air smells of snow and in my flurry of Christmas nostalgia I'm wishing for wild wind and swirling flake.

I take the metro to Hietzing and enter Schönbrun through the back door. I want to take my time walking through these magnificent gardens. I've lingered elsewhere this early Sunday afternoon and don't arrive until 3:30. Already night is beginning to fall, helped along by a light fog that blankets the palace grounds.

Large clumps of mistletoe nestle in the high branches of trees. Except for the quiet cacophony of ravens and the distant hum of people talking, there is a holy hush this afternoon as I sit on a bench and observe. It's cold enough to see my breath. I'm grateful for wool hat and gloves.

All around me are the geometrically manicured grounds of Schönbrun—skeletons of what they are in the summer. Everything is gray on gray on black and I find great beauty in that coloration.

A think gray blanket of light fog has settled in as I approach the back of the palace. I turn and face the Glorietta which appears to float in the distance—spectral gray and lovely. Some would call this bleak, but the day bespeaks of the coming of Christmas—short days, long nights, the closing down of light.

I round the palace and come into a sea of Christmas! There is still lingering light and the sky has a tinge of daylight to it. It's that blue liquid time between night and day. The Christmas tree in front of the palace's butter yellow facade glows with thousands of lights. A choir sings Adeste Fideles in front of the tree. The universality of Christmas music in a place far from home. In a wide arc around the tree are scores of small markets. They sell everything: delicious treats, glass ornaments, and flat laser-cut wooden ornaments. Vendors sell wurst and punch. I resist all food except some German pfeffernuss. I get the feeling that the food aspect draws locals here. As I've seen in other parts of Vienna these Christmas markets are a gathering point.

Two hours later, in the dazzling darkness of early evening, there are thousands of people. Locals, tourists. Waves of Japanese. Americans. Italians. The market is a polyglot of languages, but what I hear most are German and Italian. I drink all this in, live very much in the moments of this wonderful experience. A new choir is singing Silent Night, but in German.

Stille Nacht! Heil'ge Nacht! 
Alles schläft; einsam wacht 
Nur das traute hoch heilige Paar. 
Holder Knab' im lockigen Haar, 
Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh!

It is all glorious, and I do not want it to end. A light breeze has come up and the night is getting cold, but the snow I've longed for does not come. In this sacred, holy night I leave the palace grounds, but steal one long glance back—at the palace, as the Christmas tree, at the sea of Christmas market kiosks. I give silent thanks to my creator God for allowing me this privilege.

Longing and desire. Fully met this shining second Sunday in Advent.