Gaudete, baby.

Tomorrow is the Third Sunday of Advent, or Gaudete Sunday. We light the pink candle— oops, sorry, the “rose” candle— and hear readings about rejoicing. (Hence the “Gaudete,” which is the command form of the verb gaudere, “to rejoice.”

The last parish I belonged to was unofficially a first stop for new young priests who were just back from graduate study in Rome. Like most young guys, they weren’t used to wearing pink outfits. “This is the first time I’ve ever done this,” one said, not quite squirming. Another said his mother told him that “dusty rose is all the rage for bridesmaids this year.” Aren’t mothers the best?

This will be the first year in decades that we haven’t given our holiday party. Every year, on the third Sunday of Advent, we threw a party with mulled wine, Italian food and lots of pastries. Some of our Minnesotan friends had never seen an antipasto spread before. Luckily they loved it.

I have to admit, it’s a little strange not spending the vigil of Gaudete Sunday tearing around like a Tasmanian devil trying to get everything ready for our party. It’s even stranger not spending it in subzero windchills. But boy, am I not complaining. (To my dear Minnesota friends, I saw the forecast this morning. I’m praying for you.)

And since we’re officially in the home stretch, it’s finally time to get the tree decorated. I opted for a real tree this year. So far I’ve only forgotten to water it twice.

Not bad, right?