Against Mandatory Merriment
Some fragmented thoughts on seasonal grumpiness, lacking Christmas spirit, waiting, dancing through life,
Wednesday, December 11
Grand Rapids, Mich.
Bless you who feel grumpy, you who are blah.
May you be met right where you are.
Bless you who are weary, you who are flailing.
May you find rest.
Bless you who are burdened by grief, you whose heart is so heavy.
May you not be rushed from your feelings, but may memories make you smile, too, and may laughter surprise you.
Bless you who can’t quite muster any pre-Christmas cheer.
May you plant seeds of goodness for seasons to come.
Bless you who bristle at mandatory merriment.
May you sense the solidarity and the hospitality of the ancient story, which made room for fear, confusion, and bewilderment.
Bless you who sit in the darkness.
May you find friendship there.
I’m not feeling much Christmas spirit—and from the conversations I’ve had recently, as well as the notes I’ve gotten, I know I’m not the only one.
Amidst our busyness, we didn’t buy a tree this year. Tristan did put out the crèche, but there’s still no wreath on our front door. Shockingly, “All I Want for Christmas Is You” hasn’t been played a single time in my study. (I still think it’s the best modern Christmas song, though. Fight me.)
It’s hard to say what exactly is going on.
Maybe it’s the lingering grief of saying goodbye to Fozzie six months ago.
Maybe it’s that some relationships in my life aren’t quite where I wish they’d be. The jagged edges of broken relationship always feel sharper this time of year.
Maybe it’s work-related anxiety.
Maybe it’s my sadness for loved ones who are struggling mightily.
Maybe it’s my frustration at the persistent injustices and the unfairnesses of this topsy-turvy world.
Maybe it’s my chronic irritation at “gifting” as a verb. As Megan Garber has movingly written in The Atlantic, “Gifting is the ‘moist’ of the action-word world: Not all of us hate it, but those of us who do do so with a fervor that is excessive and irrational and—language being what it is—100 percent correct.”1
Maybe it’s the gray skies and damp cold.
Maybe it’s all of the above—the petty things and the big ones and everything in between.
It’s hard to say what exactly is going on, but anyway, I’ve always been opposed to enforced gladness. And here’s what I had to remember: Though the cultural tendency might be to rush toward Christmas, Advent says, “It’s okay to sit for a minute,” reminding me that there’s room for all the feelings—eager anticipation and what hope can be mustered, sure, but also waiting and longing, wondering and yearning.
When we moved to West Michigan nearly five years ago, we were struck by how dark it is when we wake in the winter. In December, the sun does not rise here until after 8 a.m. In past years, the laggardly appearance of daylight bothered me a bit. This year, not so much.
Barbara Brown Taylor has described the tension of this season as absolutely essential, and even when I can’t quite make out the voice of God, I can hear Barbara’s steady summons: “However things appear to our naked eyes, we trust that the seeds of light are planted in darkness, where they sprout and grow we know not how. This darkness is necessary to new life, even when it is uncomfortable and goes on too long.... The baby is not ready yet, which means that we are not ready either. We have some time in the dark left to go.”2
It is uncomfortable. Yet I also draw comfort from what I trust is happening in this cold, in this dark.
I feel a bit like the tulip and daffodil bulbs I nestled into the cold soil of the yard a couple of days ago: Tuck me into that darkness. Give me that patience and space—to find that kernel of hope wrapped up in the discontent, to gather strength for what comes next, to grow.
Yesterday, I pulled a parka out of my closet. My grandmother made it 50 years ago. She had been a primary-school teacher in Hong Kong, but after she came to the U.S., she became a seamstress in a factory that made sleeping bags and down jackets. Whenever I wear it, I remember her fortifying love—and I’m thankful that, even though she died in 1995, that memory endures.
As I write you, I can make out some movement in my peripheral vision: A fat squirrel, its auburn fur sharp against the white carpet of snow that unfurled last night, scavenges the neighbor’s yard for a little more nourishment, a little more padding.
A friend’s text arrives, confessing overwhelm and forging solidarity.
Amidst the unknown, this feels like enough.
What I’m Watching: I had a free evening while traveling for work. So I did something I haven’t done in nearly five years: I went to see a movie. It was The Jonathan Bailey Movie, which some other people insist on calling Wicked. (You do you!)
Bailey has something that the kids are calling “rizz,” short for “charisma,” a sort of incandescent attractiveness and almost animal magnetism. Really, as my friend Annalise noted to me a couple of weeks ago, he is rizz incarnate. He plays Fiyero, a prince whose arrival on the scene instantly dazzles everyone. No spoilers here for those of you who haven’t seen it, but the sheer spectacle and fizzy exuberance of Bailey’s big number, “Dancing through Life,” jolted me briefly into something resembling delight.
When I got back to my computer that night, I put the song on repeat: “Life is fraughtless/ When you’re thoughtless/ Those who don’t try/ Never look foolish.” Because I’m a weirdo: As I listened, I couldn’t help but hear the voice of Qohelet. It’s essentially a modern take on some of themes in the Book of Ecclesiastes: “No need to tough it/ When you can slough it off as I do/ Nothing matters.”
I know I’m ridiculous; who goes to see Wicked and thinks, “Ah, yes—echoes of Ecclesiastes!”? This should surprise absolutely nobody who knows my propensity for overthinking and making semi-specious theological connections. For Fiyero as for Qohelet, though, there are more layers that it seems at first (again, no spoilers). “Life's more painless/ For the brainless,” he sings. “Why think too hard?/ When it's so soothing/ Dancing through life.”
For two hours and forty minutes, I (mostly) turned my brain off and let my spirit be carried by the story, not to mention by Cynthia Erivo’s soaring, heavenly vocals. If you haven’t seen Wicked, I commend it to you—and if you have, I’d love to know what you thought.
What I’m Reading: Rep.-elect Sarah McBride, who was chosen by Delaware’s voters to fill their sole seat in the House, will be the first transgender member of Congress. She hasn’t taken her oath of office yet and already she has become a target of her colleagues.
Which makes the recent interview she did with David Remnick of The New Yorker all the more remarkable. As I read McBride’s words, I was overwhelmed by her stunning openheartedness, her remarkable empathy, and her clarity. “People aren’t fearless. Bravery only comes into play hen you face those fears, when you pursue something despite the fears,” she said, by way of explanation of why she chose to run for Congress. “I really do believe that we are at an inflection point where we need a politics of grace.”
A politics of grace! I had never heard of such a thing. So after I finished reading, I did some googling. McBride is a Presbyterian elder, ordained in the same congregation in which she grew up. (Fun fact: FLOTUS Jill Biden also belongs to that congregation, Westminster Presbyterian in Wilmington, Del.) I absolutely don’t believe one must be religious to hold the kind of posture that McBride does—and undoubtedly there are numerous people with fervent faith who don’t move through the world in such a way. But I also found it so heartening that McBride is living out her faith in this way.
What I’m Listening to: I love Max Richter’s moody, moving compositions. The other day, I came across Robbie Robertson’s 2010 remix of Richter’s masterpiece “On the Nature of Daylight” with Dinah Washington’s “This Bitter Earth.” With its aching ambivalence, it felt so beautifully right for this Advent season.
My publisher has another Good Soil galley giveaway up on Goodreads. Pre-orders help tremendously too, whether at your local indie bookstore or on Bookshop.org or via the online behemoth or at Grand Rapids’ Schuler Books, where I’ll be signing and personalizing copies.
Tell me: What is fueling your hope right now?
With gratitude,
Jeff
Yes, yes, I know that the dictionary allows “gift” to be used as a verb. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.
Barbara Brown Taylor just started a Substack newsletter a few weeks ago, and of course she writes sentences so lush and paragraphs so perfect that I just want to quit writing (in the best possible way).
I'm with you on the "gift is NOT a verb!!!" club. ;) My mood this season has varied wildly with the weather— when it's sunny (like today) I feel that all is well, but on gray days I can barely drag myself out of bed. I don't ever have a tree or decorate, but I like going to church and lighting candles and seeing the city's holiday lights up. Thanks for the reminder that it's okay to feel what we feel, whatever that is. And Blessed Advent!
Sitting here in tears, snuggled with a blanket amidst the gray, deeply grateful for every single word you’ve shared. Exactly what I needed. Thank you.