Advent has an uncanny ability to burst the surface tension of all that I am carrying. Whatever baggage, sadness, grief or frustration I stuffed down or didn’t process all year will surely overflow once December hits. It’s like that science experiment you do in elementary school with the pennies and the cup of water. Slipping pennies down the side and pushing the molecular bonds to their breaking point. Until finally the bubble of water bursts and spills all over the table.
This week I found myself crying in the kid pool at the YMCA. Grief hit me out of seemingly nowhere, so sharply that I couldn’t stop the tears as they flowed.
I say “seemingly out of nowhere” but I know what happened. The night before the pool I had spoken with a friend who mentioned to me some news about an estranged relative that I won’t see this Christmas but still miss. Earlier in the week I had to set a mouse trap and carefully followed the advice of my Grandpa Charlie. 10 days ago we hung ornaments that my Grandma Annie had made and I remembered the blue of her eyes and how soft her skin was when I held her hand. Grandpa Charlie and Grandma Annie are in heaven this Advent.
Each one a penny, each one pushing the surface of what my heart can handle.
This Advent I found myself caught by a line Judy Garland sings in Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.
Someday soon we all will be together/if the saints allow/ until then we’ll have to muddle through somehow.
It’s a song about someone who isn’t with the ones they love. Someone who is lonely but hoping that next year things will be different. Next year the troubles will be miles away. Next year they won’t be crying in the YMCA pool because they set a mouse trap and hung some ornaments.
And they, like me, are muddling through Advent - confused and disoriented. Waiting.
I wish I was resonating with a different song, this year. Joy to the World - perhaps. But I find myself wishing things were different and surprised that they aren’t.
In her book Sold Into Egypt: Journeys into Human Being, Madeleine L’Engle, writes that death and grief put you in a continuous state of disbelief. She writes,
I still want to turn to my mother, saying, ‘Mother, you’re the only one who knows about this…’ It is a reflex that will never completely vanish. The mortal fact that my husband Hugh’s death is still, sometimes, a matter of total disbelief.
Grief is like constantly living in a state of shock. You go about life able to forget that the person isn’t ill, no longer alive or no longer wants to be your friend. But then something happens - be it Christmas lights, the taste of candy canes, the smell of a Christmas tree or the feeling of a cold wind on your skin and you are taken back. You remember and are horribly surprised - how could THAT be the reality I am living?
I grieve not just the loss of the people but also the future I planned with them. As a young child, I planned to spend every Christmas with a certain group of people. And now, I find myself in a different future.
It isn’t that I’m ungrateful for the reality I am living. I have a husband that I adore, children that I love and dear friends and family. But that reality, even in all its goodness, does not erase that which is missing from the future I planned for myself.
L’Engle says that the disbelief stems from reality of the Resurrection in our mind, body, and soul. And, while that might be true, life can sure feel more like muddling than victory.
Advent pierces the surface without asking our permission. As much as I loathe wiping away tears at the YMCA pool, I know it is what I needed.
If I do not feel the grief the pressure will only grow. I need God to break open the sadness so that I can allow him to fill those places.
I spend too much energy trying to not open certain doors for fear that I might be reminded of how empty the rooms feel. The rooms that used to be occupied by someone who is no longer there.
But grief and disbelief are the right response to loss or tragedy and pain. It IS sad that those proverbial rooms are empty. I muddle through December because something about death and suffering IS wrong.
Jesus said, “Blessed are those who mourn for they will be comforted.”
This side of heaven, I wish I could tell you that Jesus’ comfort will mean that all sickness will disappear, all relationships will be repaired, or that there will be no more death. But I can’t.
What I can tell you this Advent is that Jesus promises to comfort those who mourn.
The past few years I have taken up the spiritual practise of being loved by God.
I say practise because it is not as easy as it sounds. I sit or lie down with my hands open and for 20 minutes I allow myself to rest in God’s love. I don’t ask, speak, work or travail, I try to not think about anything other than the truth that I am loved. I just breathe and focus my whole person on his loving presence. Slowly, it is soothing my grief. A welcomed but unexpected fruit of the practise.
When tears came at the YMCA, I slipped over to the vacant hot tub, opened my hands, let the tears flow and allowed myself to be loved. I invited God into my grief, the spaces that feel mighty empty, the ache, the muddling and disbelief and I experienced God draw near.
The way Advent pierces our lives might not be what we hoped for when we were young. So much of adult life feels like muddling but God has promised us comfort. And if Christmas speaks to us of anything it is that God is faithful to keep his promises. He has bore our flesh and cried his own tears of grief. You and I are not alone for the Great Comforter has come near and will come again.
And, thankfully, the YMCA pool is not too far off for him.
A Christmas treat that is easy to make & unbelievably good - Saltine Toffee Cookies
This Bridgetown Church series on Advent is worth a listen.
Nog Tea - black tea bag, half hot water and half hot egg nog (or just straight hot egg nog)
Books that I have found comfort in on my grief journey: Madeleine L’Engle’s book on grief that I quoted: Sold Into Egypt: Journeys into Human Being and Prayers in the Night: For those who Work or Watch or Weep by Tish Harrison Warren
Judy Garland’s singing Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas
A children’s song from Slugs and Bugs that will break open your adult heart:
Lisa, this was a joy to listen to and to read, even though it was about grief and tears. I've had similar experiences where I hear certain Christmas songs that leave me in a puddle of tears thinking about my mom. She loved to sing and she died when I was only 33-many, many Christmases ago.
Speaking of singing, the Judy Garland reference made me smile; that film is a favorite as well, a sweet reminder of the happy/sad reality of Christmas. Thank you for sharing it.
Yes, your reading voice is lovely Lisa. :) It felt like someone praying over me as I listened to your own prayer...Judy Garland (especially her), ymca pools and all. It was emptying & fulfilling all at once.
Thank you.