I originally wrote this last year for Relate Church, in anticipation of The Longest Night grief service. You can find the original post here. We’ll be facilitating The Longest Night again, this Thursday (December 21) at 7PM (PST). It’s open to anyone, so feel free to join us in person or online if it would be meaningful for you in this season.
A man of sorrows, acquainted with grief.
This isn’t a particularly attractive descriptor of a person, and yet I can’t help but find such comfort in these words spoken about Jesus in Isaiah 53:3. They make me feel safe, like I could almost climb into the person of Jesus, wrap myself in his robe, and know that he understands the indescribable ache of grief my heart sometimes holds.
This is our Jesus: hope personified, and yet acquainted with grief.
Many of us, too, find ourselves acquainted with grief over the holidays. The absence of those we have lost feels bigger somehow, more prevalent, more fresh. Relational brokenness is exacerbated, small cracks grown into an impossibly wide chasm. Memories resurface, longings remind us of what we lack, and the ache of grief weighs.
When I think of this, I think of Jesus’ entry into this world. A dark night. A stable. A labour. Painful contractions and rapid breath, cold sweat and warm tears. A body writhing in the effort of birth and, in an instant, hope bursts forth. The king is born, and he cries out. God in the form of a baby.
Christmas is a season of joy and cheer, and for good reason. Our saviour is born, and we have every reason to rejoice. The temptation to deny pain and hardship is high as we consider the goodness of the birth of our Christ. However, we would be remiss to remove grief as we prepare him room in this advent season, for it is our grief that reminds us of why Christ was born. The world needs a saviour, and we are desperately needy for him.
It is a good and right thing to honour our losses, and if you are feeling the ache this holiday season please know that you are not alone. Many walk this earth carrying the weary edge of melancholy. And Jesus, who knows sorrow and has felt grief, is with you, too.
A Blessing
"For Grief” by John O’Donohue
When you lose someone you love,
Your life becomes strange,
The ground beneath you gets fragile,
Your thoughts make your eyes unsure;
And some dead echo drags your voice down
Where words have no confidence.
Your heart has grown heavy with loss;
And though this loss has wounded others too,
No one knows what has been taken from you
When the silence of absence deepens.
Flickers of guilt kindle regret
For all that was left unsaid or undone.
There are days when you wake up happy;
Again inside the fullness of life,
Until the moment breaks
And you are thrown back
Onto the black tide of loss.
Days when you have your heart back,
You are able to function well
Until in the middle of work or encounter,
Suddenly with no warning,
You are ambushed by grief.
It becomes hard to trust yourself.
All you can depend on now is that
Sorrow will remain faithful to itself.
More than you, it knows its way
And will find the right time
To pull and pull the rope of grief
Until that coiled hill of tears
Has reduced to its last drop.
Gradually, you will learn acquaintance
With the invisible form of your departed;
And, when the work of grief is done,
The wound of loss will heal
And you will have learned
To wean your eyes
From that gap in the air
And be able to enter the hearth
In your soul where your loved one
Has awaited your return
All the time.
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