I am a winter person in my soul. Where most people long for the buzzing of springtime with the sunshine and blooming flowers, I actually dread springtime. I know — go ahead and say it. I’m crazy. Now I’ll really shock you by saying how much I loathe summertime! I have no use for summer at all. The sun is oppressive. I hide inside till autumn.

I crave the stillness of winter. I can finally breathe in the autumn and winter. Deep inside, I am like a creature that’s been curled up in a tight little ball, now finally able to relax and stretch and open wide my arms. I can raise my head again and look up without being burned.

There is a hush to a winter’s night that is intoxicating to me. And it calls to my heart in ways both comforting and painful. There may not be a creature stirring, but things are stirring inside.

Well-Acquainted with Grief; Yet Breathing in the Abiding Joy

This year, especially, I am well-acquainted with grief. The intense waves of grief that have tossed me about all year have lately been flattened and frozen over, like a layer of ice over the pond. I know I’m standing on thin ice that could collapse at any moment, leaving me to plunge into unforgiving water. But for now, I can look down and see through it, like a window, and death and all its debris are still there below the surface.

It’s an artificial peace for the moment. Or more accurately, a temporary détente. Emotions can only run on overload for so long, and then must subside a bit, if only for the sake of gathering a breath again. Breathe deep.

Breathe in the abiding joy that still lives, waiting patiently to be noticed and welcomed. The pattering of little feet in footed pajamas; the kitchen counter covered in flour as the sweet aroma of cookies fills the house; Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney counting their blessings; purple and pink candles on the table counting the weeks that are going by all too quickly.

God came. God is with us. And later on He will grab mortality by the throat and run it through.

And in the center of it all, the nativity set that belonged to my parents, which was in our house every year of my growing up, now brings its special blessing to my home and my children. My father’s touch lingers on every precious piece. 

This year is our first Christmas without him. He will hear the heavenly angels sing as we can only try to imagine, and we will try to sing through our tears. There aren’t words to describe the ache, but those who know Christmas grief don’t need a description, and I know for so many, many people, the holiday cheer is mingled with sadness.

Emmanuel in a Manger; Oh, Come, Emmanuel!

What, then, shall I take from this beloved nativity scene, handed down with all the love in a father’s heart? You and I should both take this: all the love in a Father’s heart. Those statues are not symbolic of a human myth or a fanciful tale. They impart to our eyes the most fundamental of all realities: God came. God is with us. Emmanuel lies there in a manger, in total poverty, in absolute helplessness, so we will not fear His might but open our arms to Him. And mighty He is — later on He will grab mortality by the throat and run it through. The tiny Infant Warrior has come to conquer what we hate the most: death.

There is nothing in the human person that is designed to handle and process death. We weren’t made for this. It was never supposed to be this way. Mercifully, God the Father did not abandon His children to a doomed fate and leave us wallowing in hopeless misery. Instead, His own Son took off the cloak of His glory and put on mortal flesh, stepped into time and human history, and let all the force of all Hell’s fury engulf Him. And He died.

Maybe it seems odd to be talking about His death during Advent, when we are preparing for His birth, but the awesome truth is that Calvary begins in Bethlehem. In some distant way, grief has always been part of Christmas. So in the quiet of these long winter nights, whether soothing or lonesome, look carefully at the Child in swaddling clothes. Pick Him up, and kiss His cheek. Smell the scent of Heaven on His head. Feel the curl of His hand.

Is it a tiny hand you’re missing so desperately this Christmas, or a lovely, nurturing hand, or a strong, solid hand, or an old and frail hand? He holds them all. And He holds us as well, with our grieving hearts. Those swaddling clothes will become burial cloths, and then the burial cloths will be forever abandoned and the grave made desolate. That is our cause for joy. That is the abiding joy that still beckons us.

The awesome truth is that Calvary begins in Bethlehem.

I offer this not as a platitude, and not under any illusion of a magic wand that will make the terrible ache of grief disappear. I know all too well that platitudes are worse than useless to a heart pierced by grief. It’s to remind myself, and perhaps you as well, that Emmanuel really came. He came with the intent to die, and He turned the rule of death on its head. That is reality.

It’s the reality I live in by faith, even as I live in this present, painful reality. Christmas is a strange paradox of birth and death, of joy and sorrow, of tears and hope. I will stay awake on these silent nights, in the glow of candles and tree lights, and pray for the peace and the promise of Christmas to fall like snow on a heart still hot with grief. And I will ask Emmanuel to give Daddy a hug from me. And I’ll cry, because I miss him desperately. That’s reality. 

I pray for you who grieve, that your sadness will not overwhelm you, but that the overwhelming, eternal joy of Christmas will find you, and keep you.

O come, Emmanuel.