Keeping Christmas
“I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.”
I am awake early this morning and glad to be so. Another Christmas Day has come and gone this past week, and now it is the last day of a year that has been like no other—in so many ways and on so many fronts. It has been a year marked by losses so numerous and layered that they defy our attempts to count and organize them.
We have all experienced some version of it this past ten months: losses caused by natural and man-made disasters. Losses of work and material sustenance, loss of health, and the loss of people dear to us that we never imagined being without. Loss of trust in leadership and information sources. The loss of innocence that we have experienced as we have been forced to face harsh social realities from which we dare not look away. For two people who are dear to me, there has been the bitter loss of the dream of meaningful work that would have beautifully expressed their gifts.
Underneath it all, we have experienced the loss of our fragile-but-usually-reliable sense of wellbeing and security, and we don’t like it.
The sense of loss that we carry individually and as the human family this year has been so pervasive that we are weary of even naming it. We resist every experiential reminder that, ultimately, we don’t possess the control that we previously imagined we had.
So this morning, to watch the sun come up, to hear the birds become active, to notice the colors of light changing in these hours—these things help me settle into a place in my head and my heart to reflect, to reorient, to give thanks, and to look with hope at what will come this day and all of the days to come.
To be honest, though, even as we mark the last day of this year as a turning point that we hope will bring change for the better, it begins like any other day. There is nothing magical about the turn of the calendar page or the counting of the days of the “new” year starting tomorrow.
The sense of loss that we carry individually and as the human family this year has been so pervasive that we are weary of even naming it. We resist every experiential reminder that, ultimately, we don’t possess the control that we previously imagined we had.
So this morning, to watch the sun come up, to hear the birds become active, to notice the colors of light changing in these hours—these things help me settle into a place in my head and my heart to reflect, to reorient, to give thanks, and to look with hope at what will come this day and all of the days to come.
To be honest, though, even as we mark the last day of this year as a turning point that we hope will bring change for the better, it begins like any other day.
There is nothing magical about the turn of the calendar page or the counting of the days of the “new” year starting tomorrow.
As I sit at this early morning hour in the comfort of my warm home, a dear friend of mine is sitting in a very different place: a sterile hospital room where she will receive her first chemotherapy infusion to begin treatment of a Stage IV malignancy. She is ending her year by experiencing the beginning of a journey that she certainly did not see coming nor would she have chosen. Neither viruses nor cancer have any regard for our human constructs of time and order, and their arrival disrupts our illusory sense of the safety and dependability of the familiar that we had imagined we could trust.
So what do we have to hang onto, if not our sense of security and the structure we have so carefully crafted for ourselves? How do we face the reality of impermanence in our lives without feeling bereft? How do hold the extremities of our experience—the tender, exquisite moments and the terrifying ones—as one great and unified whole? How do we rediscover and hold onto hope each day and in every situation?
Light Out of Darkness
We have just turned once again from the shortest day of our year toward the days that will bring increasing light, and new shoots of green growth will soon begin to emerge from the cold, sleepy soil of winter. In the liturgical tradition, we have just come through the season of Advent, the time when we meditate upon the meaning of waiting for the coming of God to dwell in our midst: the Light that overcomes the darkness and brings true life.
Even though we observe and even appreciate this familiar cycle and these themes of light overtaking the darkness and new life emerging from what appeared to be dead, it may be that is has felt harder to trust in any of it this year. Surely there have been moments this time around when it has been harder than usual to rest in any assurance that even “hope” is not simply an empty word. After so much loss, we may find that we are a little hesitant to really let down into the possibility that we will see healing on many levels and new life ahead of us in the coming year.
And even when we do experience glimpses and flickers of hope, how do we access and hang onto it, so that we might live with a steady sense that “all will be well” (to quote Julian of Norwich)—that all is well?
Perhaps this presence of hope, and our ability to let it reside in us, is the key to this idea of “keeping Christmas”—not just on December 25th, but every moment of every day, no matter the calendar season or the chapter of life that is unfolding for us—knowing that in the face of so much darkness, personal and collective, we can trust and place our hope in the Life-Light (as Eugene Peterson translates the words of the opening of John’s gospel in The Message). When we are rooted in hope we are able not only to live with the spaciousness of spirit that God intends for us, but Hope and Light and Life flow out of us as we live with others in community as well.
“Let Love Do Its Work”
This year during the Advent season, I have been reminded that there is a joy that is deeper than happiness. Of course, we long to feel happy and there is nothing wrong with that. We have dearly missed the freedom of feeling buoyant with the zest of life these past many months. However there is also a joy that comes as gift that is not dependent on our outer circumstances.
My friend receiving chemo was given the phrase, “Let Love do its work,” shortly after she was diagnosed. Her family and friends have also adopted this sentence-prayer as a guiding light and an invitation to let go of control. She has experienced this phrase as a gift from God, and through it, she and her community are choosing to notice the places that God is present and active—places in which there have already been gifts and graces that help to smooth the jagged edges of this otherwise fearful situation. With that noticing has come a trust and a hope in the presence of Love.
The “Guided Life”
Author Trevor Hudson, in his book, Pauses for Advent, suggests that the character of Joseph in the nativity story represents “the guided life.” He goes on to say that to live an examined, guided life requires courage, discernment, and a willingness to act, based upon that discernment.
Spiritual direction is a wonderful tool to help us to live a “guided life.” Through the holy conversation of spiritual direction, we may find the courage that is required to say “yes” to the invitation to live life fully, an ability to discern the Spirit’s leading, and a willingness to move forward in response to those nudges and invitations of the Spirit.
Trevor Hudson mentions that there are various ways that we may experience the “voice” of the Spirit: through the Creation/nature, through the words of a friend, through scripture, spiritual practice or silent reflection.
Which, if any, of these have been helpful to you over the course of your life?
Are there any other ways that you have experienced God’s presence that are not listed here?
Noticing: Hidden Blessings and Slowly-Unfolding Miracles
Another aspect of the spiritual direction conversation that may be helpful is that of noticing. Sometimes there are gifts and graces embedded in even the most challenging of circumstances—hidden blessings—that we may not notice unless we intentionally take the time to quietly reflect upon our experience. Spiritual direction may be a place in which we can give ourselves the gift of time to ponder what might be going on “below the surface,” with the supportive presence of our spiritual director as well as the Spirit.
Along with hidden blessings, we may experience the gift of answers to the cries of our hearts, though they too may require some quiet reflection in order for us to realize that they are taking place. In my own life, I have noticed that sometimes the “big ask” that I have placed before God may not be answered in one moment of change, but rather in slowly unfolding ways.
Sometimes that means a very slow unfolding!...so slow that it is only in retrospect that I apprehend that over time, something on the order of the miraculous has taken place in a way that I could not have foreseen. It usually takes some time set apart with a trusted spiritual friend or my spiritual director for me to fully notice how and where that might be happening.
Giving Thanks
It seems to me that a practice of gratitude and giving thanks is also central in helping us to regain our perspective. The habit of noticing the gifts we have been given helps us to be in a position to receive the love that restores us, and the hope that will sustain us.
As we enter this new year, friends, may you have glimmers of hope that take hold and then blossom in your heart… may you receive love that helps you to remember who you are in your truest self… and may you experience the “peace that passes all understanding.”
—Robin
