What is Christmas Spirit Anyway?

Right now a piece of my heart is across the globe as one of my best friends serves Jesus in a foreign land. Tonight at our Christmas Eve service I saw the tears on her mom's face, tears of an aching heart, longing for her daughter and grandson this Christmas.

Days ago families in Newtown abruptly lost some of the ones they hold most dear. Their hearts are breaking this Christmas.

A friend will face her first Christmas without her brother on this earth. So much hurt for her and her family this Christmas.

This is a difficult time for so many. And even though I am surrounded by family and have so much blessing in my life right now, it's easy to slip into a bit of melancholy. This world is not as it  should be. I am not as I should be. Even today I found myself fretting over trivial things like gift giving, and caring far too much about thoughtless words spoken to me. I, who say I believe in this One who brings peace on earth, am so easily disquieted.

But I long for Jesus to come and fix what is broken in this world, and what is broken in me.

And sometimes the Christmas spirit, I think, is simply holding on to what is true. We can want so much to create this atmosphere of mirth, this feeling that it seems we are supposed to have, that when we don't always have it, we feel let down. But this Christmas, in the midst of so much sadness in the world, what hope is there for those who cannot possibly experience the feelings that we so often associate with the Christmas Spirit? I think part of  the hope is that we don't have to feel anything in particular for there to still be hope. Because the truth of Christmas, the truth of who Jesus is, is outside of us and transcends any feeling or experience that we have. I can't conjure up feelings of joy or mirth. But you know what does move me, what does give me hope? When I think about the fact that I am a part of a Story that is so much bigger than me, when I think about how the God of history, the God who spun this world into existence, has had a plan from the beginning of time to make a people for himself. And that He sent His Son, Jesus, into the beauty and the mess of humanity to accomplish this goal--that He was born, He lived, He died, He rose again, and He is coming again. That He is going to give us resurrected bodies and make all things new and we will spend infinity of time loving and worshiping Him and exploring and learning about Him and His world.

The fact that I don't need to make myself feel anything is liberating. When I think about this story that I have been swept up in, often feelings of joy do come. But my hope is not based upon them. My Hope is in the Person of Jesus and all that He is for me as I stake my life upon Him.

There's a wonderful account in John's Gospel of an exchange between Jesus and Simon Peter. Jesus has just fed the five thousand and presented his followers with some challenging words. Many of them can't accept the things he says and turn from following him. Jesus asks his disciples, "Do you want to go away as well?" But Simon Peter replies, rather matter-of-factly it seems,“Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life, and we have believed, and have come to know, that you are the Holy One of God” (John 6:67-69).

I find myself echoing those words, To whom shall I go? You have the words of eternal life. There really is no other option. On my best days and on my worst days, and when the world seems like it's spinning out of control, He was and is and always has been the only one worthy of my absolute trust and confidence. I cling to Him this Christmas.

Thoughts on Today's Tragedy

Affected, yet not affected (my grief can't compare to theirs).
Moved, yet not moved (not to my core).
Shocked, yet not shocked (sadly this is so).

This is where I find myself today. It's not that I don't care; I care very much. But many are saying they are heartbroken, and honestly, I feel a little numb. How sad to live in a world in which hearing about the mass murder of multiple people is a far too common occurrence. I hear the words "another shooting" and I know I should feel such deeper grief, but it's become so common, that I don't even know how to process it anymore. It doesn't help that the first news I heard of it was shared in the break room at work. We didn't all stop what we were doing. There was no moment of silence. I sat there in sadness and some disbelief, but the news seemed like it was coming from somewhere far away. I am sure if I had children I would feel this in a deeper way. I really want to. Perhaps I am not the only one who finds herself in such a state. And maybe I'm not entirely numb. I think I'm angry. Angry that such darkness and evil can exist, and angry that we can even be robbed of the ability to be truly shocked by it. Or maybe this is just a condition of my own heart and I must fight for innocence, fight to see the world with fresh eyes and not through those jaded by time and experience, fight even to be shocked? I don't know. Please tell me if you do.

But I am sad and grieve for the families who have lost children, and for others who have lost family other members. Their lives were turned upside down today and they will never be the same. How quickly the entire course and tone of our lives can change.

I don't have any wise or profound words.

I do pray that I might be more sensitized to what has actually happened. I do pray for the families. And I do pray that His Kingdom will come and His will be done and that there might be peace on earth.

And I am thankful that this is not the end of the story.
Death does not have the final say for those who hope in Jesus.

And though we find ourselves painfully suspended between this life and the one to come,
we know there will come a day when what The Church has been praying for thousands of year--"Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done"--will finally and forever be answered in all it's fullness.
 "For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known" (1 Corinthians 13:12-13).

Hope for Clumsy Comforters

I sit across from my friend, Asia* at a table in Starbucks. I knew this would be a hard conversation, but I’m not quite prepared for how hard it will actually be. I can see the struggle worn into her face from the time she arrives. I frantically reach for something to hold onto, something to anchor me, and a bit of divine wisdom to know what to say. What do you say to your friend who carries the constant grief of infertility, who has been trying to conceive for the past few years, but still finds herself without a child? What do you say when her recent attempts to foster have only brought more heartache, when the alcohol abuse of her past (that she's free from now) caused the agency to say no when things had looked so promising? She had a room and a heart ready, and thought this would finally be her chance to nurture and love a little life. I can’t comprehend her grief.

“I don’t need sermons right now,” she says. She’s frustrated with all the attempts others make to comfort her with their words. And my mind tries to remember what I have said over the past few months, what may have been perceived as hurtful or insensitive. I remember a time, just a few weeks ago, when I had sent her a text to try to comfort her. I try to be careful and considerate with my words, especially to those who are suffering. It never occurred to me that while what I was sharing was true, it just might not be the right time. I don't even know if she's referring to what I had shared, but, I feel defensive, even a little wounded. I was just trying to help. Maybe she feels like she doesn't need truth right now, but she does! At the same time, even though I don’t understand what she’s going through, I understand just a bit of her frustration. I remember when my dad was in a deep depression, my heart already weighed down with grief, hearing someone say in my hearing that “it’s a sin to be depressed.” I know friends who have lost loved ones and then, only adding to their grief, had other “friends” say, “If you had just had more faith your [family member] would have been healed.”  When another friend lost a loved one I saw the comments on Facebook, reminding her that “He's in a better place, and "God has a plan." Yes, he is, and God does, I want to say, but how is that helpful right now? How does that even scratch the surface of mind-numbing pain? I know how unthinking we humans can be. Oh, we mean well so much of the time, but so much of the time we just need to keep quiet. 

What hurts most right now is to realize I’ve been one of them—one of the well-meaning, but perhaps-a-little- thoughtless ones. And it’s pride, I know. Pride that’s surprised that I would make a mistake. Pride that doesn’t’ want to be in the category of the clumsy comforters. But I am one of them, broken and in need of grace.

We stand in the parking lot and hug. I tell her I’m sorry if I’ve ever said anything insensitive. She assures me it’s ok, and leaves to go back to Austin.

Over the next few weeks I wrestle and grieve a little. I grieve my pride and I grieve clumsy words and I grieve for my hurting friend. I'm uncomfortable with the way things were when she left. I know my apology may have been sincere, but I’ve struggled since then with how to reconcile the need we all have to hear truth with the need to just be with people in their suffering. But it comes to me slowly, what I’ve known all along. I am not called to fix anyone. My words will never be able to heal. I am simply called to love. To love patiently. To love consistently. To love fervently. And love will take different shapes, it will look different in different seasons and for different people, depending upon their needs.

I send her an email with these words:

Just thinking of you. Praying for you. Love you.

I want to say I'm sorry again if I've ever said anything hurtful or insensitive or preachy. Sometimes I want so much to encourage, that I forget the time might not be right, even if what I share is true.

I want you to know I love you right where you are, and of course, HE does too.

If you ever want to be reminded of truth or need some kind of specific encouragement or prayer, please know I'm here. I'll leave that up to you.

For now I just want you to know you have my love and prayers. I'm thankful for you.

And her reply:

Thank you, sister. That meant a lot to me. I look back to before I struggled with infertility and the way I sometimes interacted with people in pain. I focused on sharing truth (which is good) but didn't really listen to their heart and join them in their mourning.  Sometimes we just need a presence, someone to witness our pain and love us thru it.  It is uncomfortable because it is completely out of our control.  Thank you for seeking to understand...

 

Yes, it is uncomfortable because it is completely out of our control. I think that’s why we reach for words instead of silence at times. Silence is scary. The words aren’t always for the person we are trying to comfort; we are trying to grasp for something to hold onto, something to give us a sense that the world is still alright. And sometimes, like reaching out to straighten a crooked picture on a wall, we thoughtlessly try to "straighten" others, to bend them to a place of being "all right.' But the world isn’t alright; it’s broken. And part of how we enter into others’ pain is by not trying to pretend that everything is alright when it’s not. Yes, God is still good, but right now the whole creation is groaning, waiting to be delivered from it’s bondage to decay (Romans 8:20-23). Suffering is real.

Grieving with someone without saying can sometimes feel like we are standing on the edge of a cliff, about to fall into the unknown. Sometimes it feels like we're already falling. Words feel like a net, promising to catch us. But really, we don’t have to fear. We don’t have to reach for a net, because underneath it all are His everlasting arms, and our words don't hold everything together; He does. It’s not that there’s never a time to speak true words of comfort, it’s just that they fall flat sometimes when the pain is so deep. Not only that, the lack of empathy behind them can hurt more than heal. “Whoever sings songs to a heavy heart is like one who takes off a garment on a cold day, and like vinegar on soda” (Proverbs 25:20). 

I will Say I love you. I will Say I’m sorry. I will Say I’m praying for you. But after that, I will wait; I will simply be present and show my love. I'm sure I'll make mistakes again, and that's okay. The important thing is that I know the God of all Comfort, the God who became flesh and lived in our sin-stained world, is teaching a clumsy comforter what it means to incarnate his love.

*I asked Asia if I could share her story. She was glad for it to be shared if it might be able to help others. She has a heart of gold!