I haven’t really known what to do with Advent this
year. In these weeks leading up to
Christmas I’m hearing a lot about Anticipation and Hope and Light and, well, my
life right now is not that. It’s
hard to anticipate the coming King of hope and light when life feels a little
hopeless and dark, you know? It’s
hard to exist in the joyful spirit of Christmas when your spirit is anything
but joyful.
A few weeks ago I attended an Advent service let by my
friend Charity’s mom, Ruth. For
some reason I always seem to sense God’s presence more thickly when I’m in
Ruth’s company. She has a way with
words that pierces right into my soul, making room for God to flood it more
fully I guess. So when some plans
shifted around and I had the chance to attend her Advent service I made it a
point to do so even though it meant meeting my family late for dinner.
I was a little nervous about the service, afraid it would be
all about the joyful anticipation of Christ, about how the world was about to
get a big ole’ dose of Hope and Light.
In other words, I was worried it would be about a whole bunch of crap
that would make me feel even more out of place in the world around me.
But instead Ruth talked about longing. About how our heart longs to see
light. About how we are longing
for light in dark places. And, as
though she were talking directly to me, Ruth talked about how some of us are
sitting in places of deep longing right now. Longing that goes unmet.
For an hour I sat in that service thinking about what my
heart longs for. There were
obvious longings, and some less so.
I sat in the deep, aching longing and knew some of the things I yearned
so gut-wrenchingly for would never be met.
It’s easy to feel sort of lost in this holiday season when
your state of being goes so far against the grain of everyone else’s. You start to resent everyone who is so
excited about the magic of the story of Christmas, the story of how God brought
light and hope and love to earth in the form of a tiny human baby, when you are
longing so deeply for light and hope and love and feeling so lost in
darkness. It’s hard to feel any
sort of anticipation for God when you’re left feeling a little unsure of whom
He is in the first place.
So this is for those of us who are left longing for light in
this Advent season. The ones uncertain
that God really is who He said He was and can do what He promised He
could. The ones who will wake up
on Christmas morning still feeling alone even though Immanuel, God With Us, has
supposedly arrived. To those of us who hate the story God is currently writing for you I can only offer
this: You are not alone. I’m holding space for you, with you. Sometimes my grief feels as though it’s
a small child mid-tantrum, trying to break free from the hold I attempt to
contain it in. I like the idea of
holding space in these moments, of giving my sadness room to thrash and wail
and beat.
I could tell you about how I’ve thought a lot about the
Israelites that first Christmas who longed for a Messiah. Things were dark, the future uncertain
and their hearts longed for light.
And it came in the form of a baby.
I’m willing to bet that more than a few were a little unsure of God if
this was his master plan for a Messiah.
I’m willing to bet that more than a few were still left longing in the
face of that tiny human baby.
And sometimes, I can find comfort in that. Sometimes I can be reminded that the
story isn’t finished and light will eventually be revealed. That Jesus is Immanuel even if I
don’t feel it to be true.
But sometimes there just really isn’t any way to wrap all
the darkness up with words that bring light. Sometimes darkness is still just darkness, and longings
remain unmet. And in these times
I’m finding that comfort only comes in the form of those who simply let it be
what it is. Who sit in the
darkness with us and don’t try to force light. Who don’t short-change our longings with inadequate
substitutions.
If this Christmas finds you sitting in it, just know you
aren’t alone. I’m here. Holding space for you. With you.
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