My rush to pull out the ornaments and set up the tree and string the lights isn’t actually rooted in holiday cheer this year. The allure of the glowing lights and gingerbread isn’t really because it’s a tradition. Oh, sure, part of me wishes that all the Christmas happy will fix the rest of 2020.
But really, this year, it’s more.
This year, we’re walking into this season of advent waiting from a season of already waiting. We walked much to get here, didn’t we? Coming from these winding, pocked paths has me arriving in this season even more worn. My longing for our Savior reaches deeper, down into the marrow of my tired bones.
Never has a Christmas found me in a place to understand the words from “O, Holy Night” the way I do this year. Perhaps you feel the same?
“The thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices.”
This year, I’m not singing that with a sing-song, nicey-nice voice. This year, that thrill and rejoicing rises from a place of collective despair and shared fatigue. The thrill grows from raw; the rejoicing weighs heavy, hungry for relief.
This year, I fall on my knees easily, aching to rejoice anew over that glorious morn.
This year, I’m pleading in nights silent for our wondrous star to lend its light and comfort us.
This year, my longing looks past the decorations to the Son of God, love’s pure Light.
Read the rest at The Joyful Life Magazine.