Someday soon, we all will be together…
if the fates allow.
Until then,
we’ll have to muddle through somehow…
So have yourself a merry little Christmas now.
If there were ever a lyric for the holiday season of 2020…that would be it. Sung mournfully by Judy Garland, it brings me to tears every time.
Tonight is the winter solstice, the longest night of the year.
And tonight…I broke down.
It was a conversation my husband and I were having about Christmas. What would have been a fairly normal conversation last year or the year before, now feels incredibly stressful and filled with potentially dire consequences. But every decision for the past nine months has felt that way. Even walking out of Target, I remove my mask to find that my jaw has been tensed the entire time. I’m tired. I’m weary. I’m angry. I’m afraid. I’m lonely. I’m muddling through somehow. And I’m one of the lucky ones. I have friends whose parents are seriously ill, and friends dealing with the long-term effects of covid. I have friends who have officiated so many more funerals this year than previous. Lost jobs, lost savings, lost loved ones–and here I am, warm and safe on my couch, a lucky one.
But tonight I broke down. I’m muddling through. I’m doing the best I can. I’m generally holding it together well. But tonight, as I mentally prepped myself for the week ahead, I remembered that one day will look drastically different than it has my entire life. Christmas Eve. Nearly every year of my life, I’ve been in church for Christmas Eve. Sometimes Presbyterian, usually Methodist, occasionally in the nativity play (you better believe I was the Little Drummer Girl), and as an adult, spending most of my day at church doing everything from preaching to lighting candles to handing out gifts. Christmas Eve is one of my favorite nights of the year. And my most cherished moment, no matter the church, no matter the pastor, no matter how the day or week or year has gone…is the close of the service as we sing Silent Night together, gazing at the candles in our hands, illuminating the darkened sanctuary.
Light. Dark. It’s always been my favorite metaphor for the Christian story, the story of Love overcoming the Worst in the world. And this year, because of the Worst, Christmas Eve service is not in a building but on YouTube or Facebook Live. I haven’t been inside my church building since mid-March. And I completely support the decision to move all services online. I think it’s wise and a compassionate move to care for the community.
And yet I broke down. It’s not just tradition, it’s unifying to see so many lights together, to hear the voices singing in unison. It’s comforting, a reminder that I’m not alone in my faith journey. It’s humbling, a child singing the same song next to a ninety year old man, a teenager next to a phD. We’re all in this together. And when I raise my candle, it’s my own form of stubborn protest in this dark world, that I won’t let the injustice, hatred, violence, and general evil win, at least not on my watch.
After tonight, the nights get just a bit shorter. Two minutes and seven seconds, to be exact. And by Christmas Day, we should have eight more minutes of daylight. And you may find me, the night before Christmas, standing in my snowy yard alone, holding a candle, humming Silent Night. I will raise my candle of hope as an encouragement to you and me–to keep muddling through–and as as symbol of what’s to come–Light.
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