Happyish Holidays

Some fragmented thoughts on the emotions of this season, perfect lamination and distinct layers, a car ad, and the Dolly Parton cover of "The Story"

Dec 02, 2023

Saturday, December 2
Grand Rapids, Mich.

The other afternoon, before we left Cape Cod, the sky gave me a gift. I love when sunbeams streak through the clouds, as if struggling to be seen. There’s something gorgeous about this interaction between light and dark, something compelling about all the colors that emerge in the midst of their movements. Something real, too.

In recent years, Blue Christmas and Longest Night services have become increasingly common. Such observances, which acknowledge sadness, provide much-needed respite. What a relief to make collective room for grief, if just for an hour or so, when it seems as if, everywhere else, there’s mandatory merriment and inflicted cheer. A strange consolation comes from being reminded, in community, that, during this season, as any other, the emotional life of humanity is multidimensional.

Nobody is sure when such services began. But Ruth Graham, who is one of the very best religion reporters working today, published a piece in Slate several years ago that traced the tradition to Canadian hospices in the 1980s. From there, the practice is believed to have moved into churches. “The idea of Blue Christmas is to acknowledge the darkness, and let it be dark,” she wrote. “That is a quietly revolutionary act in an optimism-obsessed culture that would pressure even the Little Match Girl to look on the bright side.”

The troubling implication is that our culture, including our communities of faith, struggles to welcome the entire range of human emotion, even at the best of times. (I hear “the best of times” is a real thing.) Particularly as we approach the holidays, there can seem so little room for feelings that are deemed “negative.” We do not handle complexity well. We are terrible at the “yes, and.” But a facade of happiness doesn’t mean there isn’t sorrow within.

In some congregations, these services are held on or near the winter solstice, which, from the 9th century onward, had also been the Catholic feast day of the apostle Thomas. In 1969, the Roman church shifted the calendar, moving St. Thomas’s feast to July 3, to clean up the Advent calendar. But there’s something fitting to me about remembering the disciple who doubted at this time of year. He was the one who wasn’t willing to go along with the prevailing mood, the one who dared to make room for awkward questions, the one who bravely asked to see the evidence of God’s work for himself.

Stained-glass window from Exeter Cathedral. Photograph by Rob Farrow

My beloved Crosspointe Church in North Carolina holds an annual service called Remember, which happened a couple of days ago. Folks were invited to bring their griefs, gathering in solidarity with one another to seek divine hope. I was honored to be invited to record some thoughts for this year’s gathering—and it was important to me that we make room for all kinds of griefs, not just the ones that the world tends to rank more highly. That’s a false and unhelpful hierarchy to me. Anyway, I thought I’d share with you what I shared with the folks at the service. If you would prefer to watch or listen, you can find the recording here.

A talk given at the Remember service, Cary, N.C., November 30, 2023

The past year was marked by all kinds of griefs in my life.

In February, my beloved mother-in-law died, leaving a void in our family that is impossible to fill. It was only in the days after she died, as I went back through emails and text messages, photos and cards, that I realized just how profound a presence she’d been in my life. I suppose her love was a little bit like the light of the sun, which nourishes and warms so steadily, so consistently, that you take it for granted until it disappears.

It feels a little weird to be talking with you about this grief, even though I know that we are gathered because of grief. I don’t talk much about losing my mother-in-law, just as I don’t talk much about the griefs that I still feel so powerfully, sometimes years after the fact. I don’t talk much, for instance, about the sorrow I still feel about my paternal grandmother’s passing, which happened when I was 17—and I am definitely not anything close to 17 anymore. I don’t talk much about so many other griefs in my life, and I’ve got my reasons. I think they’re pretty good reasons.

I am guessing that some of you might share something with me in that you might think your reasons for not sharing your griefs are pretty good too. Yet these stories we tell ourselves are often costly. Among the stories I have told myself at various moments: I can handle it on my own. Someone else won’t understand. It’s too hard to explain. I don’t want to be anyone else’s object of pity. I don’t want to be judged for the ways I’m grieving or not grieving. I need to be strong, maybe for someone else, but maybe because it’s the person I’ve told myself I need to be.

So here we are, you and me, and we get to be together, and I want to name explicitly that it matters that we are together: You are brave to bring your griefs here, both the ones that you’ve named as well as the ones that you’re still holding just in your heart, and you give us a beautiful gift by allowing us, at least for a few minutes, to accompany you. You are brave to bring your griefs here, and it’s an honor to walk alongside you with them.

You know as well as I do, though, that the death of a loved one isn’t the only kind of grief, which comes in so many variations, so many shapes, so many forms.

There is the grief of a world that remains unjust and hard, so many lands and so many peoples that are crying out in anguish and despair.

There is the grief of dashed hopes and disappointed expectations, demoralized spirits and overwhelmed bodies.

There is the grief of letting go of the person you once thought you’d be—or maybe the person you hoped someone else would be.

There is the grief of the unreceived apology and the still-broken relationship, an unresolved misunderstanding and a lost opportunity that can’t be found again.

There is the grief of the sobering diagnosis and the scary prognosis, the frightening future and the terrifying unknown.

There is the grief of the thing you’re too embarrassed to name out loud, the secret you hide in your heart, your longing to be known and not rejected, your desperation to matter.

There is the grief that you have carried for so long that it might feel irrelevant to others but it is still so real for you.

There is the grief of the seed that didn’t germinate, the plant that withered, the dinner that burned, the milk that spilled or spoiled.

Where is the good news for us?

I think one bearer of good news comes embodied in the person we call Emmanuel, God with us, Jesus who came in the fullness of the glorious divine but also in the totality of what it means to be human.

There is the good news of a Jesus who is well acquainted with everyday sorrows—and I think it isn’t a small thing that Scripture records his response to small things, like the time Jesus gets all cranky about wanting to eat a fig even when it’s not in season. Isn’t being hangry a form of grief? Isn’t it something to get a glimpse of a God who knows these kinds of realities?

There is the good news of a Jesus who, over and over again, meets people where they are, never shaming, always offering solidarity, never dehumanizing, always seeing the heart.

There is the good news of a Jesus who knows in his bones the profound sadness of losing a friend—and I think it isn’t a small thing that Scripture tells us how he mourned the death of Lazarus.

There is the good news of a Jesus who, as his body failed him, dared to quote the psalmist, crying out, My God, My God, why have you forsaken me? And I think it isn’t a small thing that Scripture tells us what he said in those moments of pain, because it gives us permission to say the same and it tells us it is okay to dare God to show up as God has promised to.

There is the good news of a Jesus who meets us on the other side of the tomb, who does what we cannot and finds a way through death to resurrection. And I think it isn’t a small thing that Scripture tells us this wild story of otherworldly hope, because it helps us to believe that somehow, somewhere, sometime, all will be redeemed and all will be made whole and all will be well again.

Alongside all our griefs, we receive these glimmers of good news—good news that isn’t meant to bypass our sorrow, isn’t meant to diminish our pain, isn’t meant to make us feel as if we shouldn’t feel what we feel. No. The good news is that Jesus is with us in all of it. He embodies the hope of a path to ultimate healing, and he promises to walk us all the way home.

Even as you sit in the reality of your griefs, hold onto that good news too, friends. It doesn’t have to be either/or. This good news makes room. It is the good news of a love beyond all other loves, a patient love and a kind love, a generous love and divine love, and it is for you. Amen.

What I’m Eating: We are not road-tripping people, but once or twice a year, we make the trek between Michigan and Massachusetts, stopping in Buffalo, N.Y., along the way. Because we are who we are, we time our Buffalo stops for the days when the Butter Block bakery is open; yes, we have been known to change our schedule just to eat there. Their wondrous baked goods make the drive just a little more tolerable. We limit ourselves to four items between the two of us. (Please clap for our self-control.) Then, for a few minutes, we sit in our car, wolfing down the perfectly laminated pastries—so many distinct layers! We give thanks for butter and for flour and for the skillful hands that transformed them into these little marvels. We endure Fozzie’s stares of befuddlement from the backseat—how dare we enjoy food without him?—and maybe give him one too many consolation treats. This past Thursday, we had the kouign amann and the caramelized onion and gruyere danish, which are both always on the menu, as well as two seasonal danishes, one with roasted mushroom, lemon ricotta, and fontina and another with mixed berry and brown butter. Things of beauty.

We are living through a time of flourishing in the pastry arts—and that’s before we even start talking about bread. All across the country, in big cities and small towns, I’ve found extraordinary baking: Butter Block in Buffalo, the Little Tart in Atlanta, Weltons Tiny Bakeshop in Charleston, Seylou in D.C., the Gingered Peach in Lawrenceville, N.J., PB Boulangerie in Wellfleet, Mass. I’d love to know where you find your favorite pastries. Distinct layers only, please.

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What I’m Watching: It takes a lot for me to direct you to advertising, but this Chevrolet ad is both heartbreaking and heartwarming—and, alas, true to so many families’ experiences.

What I’m Listening to: I stopped tweeting months ago, but almost always regrettably, I still peek occasionally to see what’s going on in The Bad Place. A few days ago, a friend led me into temptation, and I made the mistake of going on Twitter for the first time in a while. I found that a dear friend of mine who died a few years ago had once again become the object of social-media target practice for some uncharitable theological types (“outrage theologians,” one person dubbed them).

For a few minutes, I was tempted to try to devise some pithy reply, but then wisdom nudged me back. There is nothing that I could possibly say to convince these folks. What would the words and the effort be worth? One person I know wondered whether it was important to reply, if only to say to vulnerable folks who might come across the thread that someone cared, that there was better news out there.

About that same time, Dolly Parton’s “The Story” came on my Spotify. Brandi Carlile recorded the song first, and the original is good, but to my ear, Parton’s plaintive cover is even better. As I listened to the words, I felt some things: “You see the smile that's on my mouth/ It's hiding the words that don't come out/ And all of our friends who think that I'm blessed/ They don't know my head is a mess.”

Dolly Parton and Brandi Carlile. Courtesy of the Newport Festival

“The Story” bares the soul of someone who has been through some stuff. It celebrates connection. It honors vulnerability. “The Story” is usually—and rightly—regarded as a love song: “No, they don't know who I really am/ And they don't know what I've been through like you do/ And I was made for you.” I got to thinking: What if we could hear “I was made for you” not as an individual declaration of romantic love but rather as an invitation to community? What if “you” were not singular but plural? What if it were experienced as a call to belonging and care? What if we were so profligate, so lavish, with sharing—and honoring—our stories, especially the parts about perseverance and endurance, particularly the aspects that have produced the scar tissue and left their marks on our spirits, such that we were able to create security and hospitality for others? What if we received this song not as a solo but as a round?

In that candor, in the slow work of building community, we might be able to do some beautiful things.

—

My apologies for not being more consistent about writing to you over these past few weeks. Words have been somewhat elusive, my spirit frayed.

Last week, I had lunch with my book editor, Derek Reed, who is the loveliest. Since I live in Michigan and he lives in Maine, we’re rarely in the same place; we met in New Hampshire! We talked about life and Texas and family, and even some about my writing, including my book manuscript, which he’s been editing. He couldn’t have known just how much I needed his encouragement, how much it meant to me that he saw the heart behind my words, and how much it mattered that he’d driven a couple of hours to meet with me. A couple of days later, when he sent me the edit, I saw a note in the margins in which he likened one section of my prose to what a typical nondenominational youth pastor might say. Brutal, I tell you—absolutely brutal. I’m still recovering. But thank God for the ones in our lives who can say the hard things and urge us toward our better selves.

Notes of a Make-Believe Farmer

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