My Tears on Christmas: For Those Who Are Grieving Today

Christmas is here, but the ache in my heart is full of sorrow. This morning, I did not wake with joyful anticipation, but with sickening dread. Throughout the day, as stockings were brought down, as packages were torn open, as my siblings laughed and exclaimed over their gifts, there were moments when my tears refused to flow – though I wanted them so desperately. And there were other moments when the tears came, and in vain I struggled to hold them back: As I looked at the one lonely stocking left on the beam when all the other ones had been taken down and opened. As I strained my ears for the missing voice, the laugh, the jokes, the smiles. As I looked around the room, full of gifts and wrapping paper and small children, and felt it looked so painfully empty.

Christmas without Isaiah. I was dreading this day.

The anticipation of this holiday seemed to pass over me with nothing but a frigid burst of air, as it blew its happy promises on the rest of the world: snow, gift shopping, family reunions, holiday decor, and the cheerful wishes that always seem to accompany: “The Happiest Time of the Year.”

Oh sure, I bought gifts, I helped decorate, I ate fudge and cookies and laughed at family holiday foibles, but I felt empty inside…I still do. The numb ache won’t go away. And the usual joy and memories that are tied up in this precious holiday, seem to just press the void deeper into my heart.

“Those Who Walk in Darkness…

Every family has a story. There is always darkness beneath the Christmas lights. Mingled with the joy of the Holiday spirit is the pain of broken marriages, loneliness, depression, sudden loss, cold, hunger,  and tears.

There are holes in so many families, as there is a hole in ours. A chair sitting empty around the breakfast table. A gift wrapped but never opened. A stocking hung but never taken down. Words like, “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas” are replaced by the painful desire to just survive the day. I heard the song “I’ll be Home for Christmas”, and I burst into tears. It felt like a broken promise.

In an effort to find hope despite the frivolity of the happiness, I tried to prop my wilting soul on the Baby in the manger. As the superficiality of the holiday message pierced deeper and deeper into my heart, I tried to set my mind on a more sanctified Christmas Spirit. I remember telling myself: “I must try to be happy. Christmas isn’t about me anyway. I don’t have to enjoy the songs, the gifts, the food…I may just survive that and that’s okay. But I need to enjoy the truth. I may not have to celebrate well, but I do need to believe well.”

But it has been hard to prepare my heart for this day. To be honest, I don’t think I ever quite did. But which one of us can truly claim to be prepared for Christmas? Who among us can fully prepare our hearts to grasp the awful truth of this day? Perhaps, in my happiness, I could never have been as prepared for Christmas, as I am now in my grief. Perhaps I have, this year, been closer to the very first experiencers than I ever have before. Perhaps grief, not happiness, is an emotion most genuine to that very first day, 2000 years ago, when God’s Son was laid in a manger.

For as we picture that scene, we picture it all wrong. We imagine, as we snuggle in comfortable houses underneath thick blankets, near warm fires, surrounded by family and gifts and lights, that nothing but peace and sentiment should warm our hearts in memory of that day – thus we surround what we imagine that day to have been like with peace and sentiment. We sing of a world, calm and bright. We sing of an infant, awake though never crying, radiant beams emanating from his holy face. We sing of a warm light bringing joy and peace and happiness to the world. We imagine invisible halos, and cattle gently breathing clouds into the crisp, dark night; a lamb resting his wooly head on the smooth wood of the manger, as angels sing a chorus above the quiet stable walls.

The sentiment of the scene sustains us, overflows into generosity, love, and laughter, and warms our hearts – that is until our hearts are broken. Then the light fades. The night grows cold. And the manger scene is not big enough to fill the void inside my aching soul.

…Will See A Great Light

My heart is broken. And if my hope of Christmas lies in nothing greater than the happiness of a silent baby being placed in a manger, than my hope of Christmas isn’t enough to make me survive this day. Christmas is hard this year. But if the soul of the “Christmas Spirit” rests in my sucking warmth from a manger scene, then Christmas wouldn’t be hard – it would be impossible.

There is more in myself which is grieving the death of my brother than there is which is rejoicing over the birth of a son. My heart is more welded to pain than peace, more often torn in tears than it is lifted in laughter. The image that keeps repeating in my mind is not a sentimental imagining of the happy completion of that little family in Bethlehem, leaning with the lambs over the edge of the manger, and gazing together at their perfect and peacefully sleeping child. Rather it is the image of us, in terror and tears, with a gaping hole in our hearts, as we gathered around a hospital bed and stared at the broken and unresponsive body of my ten-year-old brother, who never woke again.

Which is why I’m so glad that Christmas is greater than a manger scene. I am so thankful that the joy of this season is not dependant on whatever warm feelings I can muster in my heart. For the first time, I look at Christmas with a measure of the grief, and pain, and despair, and darkness which surrounded the hearts of those who saw it first.

For Jesus did not come in a world that was calm and bright. He came into a world lost in darkness, captive to corruption, in physical and spiritual slavery, futile, despairing, full of sin, and drinking deeply of the bitter dregs of sorrow. This was no silent night. This was a lightning bolt, splitting the weeping history of the world in two. This was the Holy God in all His glory, entering the physical frailty of a tiny infant who had come to save the world. This was the Creator of men, being fashioned in the image of man. This was the Giver of life, now dependant – as dependent as my brother was – on oxygen, and pumping blood, and a heart that must keep beating.

The Word of God was unable to speak. The Power of God was contained in a trough of straw. The Wisdom of God was taught by two young peasants. The King of Kings was suffering as a servant. The Prince of Peace would be crucified Lord.

This baby entered a scene of darkness and horror and dread, marching directly toward pain, and blood, and death. The trees of Bethlehem formed his manger. The trees of Golgatha would form his Cross. This fragile skin was destined to be torn with cords, these sensitive nerve endings were made to feel the piercing of nails, this breathing child was born to die. He who was now tasting the fragile thread of life, would swallow death, and die in the process.

But the land living in darkness would see a great light. Those dwelling in the shadow of death would taste the hope of salvation. Those oppressed by tyrants would be given an eternal kingdom. The yoke of bondage would be broken, and the yoke of the Shepherd would be shared.

…And His Name Shall Be Called Wonderful

This Child had been born.

Not to bring peace between men, but to bring peace between God and men. Not to overflow our sentiments into generous deeds and righteous behavior, but to bring salvation to a world in rebellion and spiritual death. Not to set up a day on which we turn our thoughts to a manger scene, but to erect a pinnacle in history – a path, leading to suffering, to Calvary, to the grave, and to resurrection.

That is why this Christmas, I do not simply cling to a light, but to “God who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness.'” Grief has weaned me from earthly treasures and shown me that I “possess this precious treasure, the divine Light of the Gospel, in frail, human vessels of earth, that the grandeur and exceeding greatness of the power may be shown to be from God and not from ourselves.” (2 Corinthians 4:6; AMPC)

That is why this Christmas, though I am “hedged in, pressed on every side, troubled and oppressed in every way,” I am “not crushed”. Though I feel that I am “unable to find a way out” of this grief and sorrow, I am “not driven to despair”. Though I feel “pursued, persecuted and hard driven”, I am “not deserted to stand alone.” Though I am stricken “to the ground”, yet I am “never struck out and destroyed.” (2 Corinthians 4:8-9; AMPC)

God does not rejoice in my grief. He grieves with me. The sorrow and pain of this world fills his heart. The silent scream of my soul has reached his ear, and the answer which he sent back was Christmas.

For this Child was born unto us, to become a man, to become flesh, and dwell among us. Christ answered our tears by tasting them with us. He took our pain by putting it on himself. He fixed the brokenness by becoming broken. He rose us to hope, by entering into our despair. He resurrected our bodies by dying himself, so that for us, as for him, death is not the end.

And of His Kingdom, There Will Be No End”

Christmas is not for the righteous, for the happy, for the holy, for the complete, for the perfect, for the merry, for the generous, for the kind, or for those who are prepared for it. But rather, for those of us who grieve on Christmas, Jesus came. For those of us who struggle under the weight of despair, Jesus came. For those of us who are broken, who feel alone, who weep and groan in a dying world, Jesus came.

Oh, ye beneath life’s crushing load,

Whose forms are bending low,

Who toil along the climbing way

With painful steps and slow;

Look now, for glad and golden hours

Come swiftly on the wing;

Oh rest beside the weary road

And hear the angels sing. 

For lo! the days are hastening on,

By prophets seen of old,

When with the ever-circling years

Shall come the time foretold,

When the new heaven and earth shall own

The Prince of Peace, their King,

And the whole world send back the song

Which now the angels sing.*

Soli Deo Gloria,

* Sergio Franchi, It Came Upon a Midnight Clear