For the last thirteen years, a cloud descends the closer we get to December. Its shape differs from year to year, but the heaviness is always there—pressing in with reminders of hard holidays past. The air is thick with memories of doctors’ offices and off-white walls and gripping the black-and-white image of our unborn son as the words “cannot support life outside the womb” ring like stereo feedback in our ears.
I do not love the cloud, but I have come to expect it. I have come to anticipate that—along with roasted rosemary turkey and corn casserole—Thanksgiving ushers in a season of nuance, and instead of fighting against it or pretending it isn’t there, I have learned to settle beneath the heaviness like a weighted blanket. I hunker within its mass like a hug. The weight of it slows me, until every aching muscle has a chance to exhale.
Practically, I start crossing nonessentials off calendars and lists. I circle the important things and let the rest fall away, because these are not weeks for last-minute hustle but for letting myself be home. I make room for the grief while still reaching toward celebration like a prayer.
Because more than ever, I need the glimmer of twinkle lights, the cinnamon-citrusy scent of wassail, and rhythmic movement of wrapping presents while watching White Christmas out of the corner of my eye. I need to dance to “Feliz Navidad” every time it pops up on the holiday playlist, if only to see our youngest son erupt in giggles as he breathlessly begs me to stop (only to press repeat the moment the song is over). I need those nights where we nestle by the fire.
So I do. I sink down into the season with equal parts heaviness and hope, believing like Henri Nouwen that “I do not have to wait until all is well, but I can celebrate every little hint of the Kingdom that is at hand.”1 I slow down and settle in not only because I am weary, but so I can see and savor every pinprick of light that breaks through the clouds. I cling to beauty and goodness and laughter not as something shiny, but as seeds of a Love that is greater—the essence of One who is my Home.
And Home is how I make it through.
Because over the years, I have also come to recognize that going Home is not necessarily returning to a physical place. That’s pure sweetness when it happens. A gift, really. But even the places we love are imperfect and, for many, what we call “home” is often the root of the heaviness we hold in the first place.
No matter how great Mom’s Christmas cookies might be, our truest Home is not defined by specific people and places, but is found within the love of God himself. It is folded within the delicate contours of our personhood and made evident in “every little hint” of divinity we see and sense here in the common life. From the frosted tips of leaves that have fallen to the smell of hot chocolate rising from a well-used mug, the world is full of his essence—tiny reminders of how deeply and fully we are loved.
And I don’t want to miss them. I don’t want to overlook God’s presence in pursuit of plastic smiles or manufactured mirth. I don’t want to ignore the heaviness and, as a result, blind myself to the goodness of a Home that is already here. No, I want to see Emmanuel’s fingerprints on the windows and catch a glimpse of the way his breath fogs up the glass. I want to know him in the cloud.
Because despite how hard it can be to hold the heaviness, to drop to my knees beneath its weight, there is a sturdiness here. There is freedom in getting low. And as much as I want to resist it, there are some things we cannot see without surrender–without sitting down, looking up and out, and remembering we are already Home.
I don’t know the source of the weight you might be carrying. These days, there’s certainly plenty of dark clouds to go around. But as we enter into these holiday weeks, I hope we can let ourselves settle in and savor all those hints of God’s love that are in and around us. May we let ourselves linger in every bit of goodness inviting us Home.
PS: From time to time, I find a book or a song that wraps words around truths that have been banging and clanking within me. As I wrote this piece, the lyrics to Jess Ray’s song “No Home” were echoing in my mind. If you have not heard that song, I recommend it. (Here’s a link to where you can find the album.) Maybe the song can be a sweet reminder in this season.
A quote from one of my favorite books by Henri J.M. Nouwen, The Return of the Prodigal Son: A Story of Homecoming.
thank you for your heartfelt thoughts. heaviness is part of the human condition, us longing for the Lord's return when He will wipe every tear. i especially loved the Henri Nouwen quote. I put it on my chalkboard wall.
Thank you so much, Sarah. Your words are a balm to this weary caregiver's soul.