6 Humble yourselves, therefore, under God’s mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time. 7 Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.
—The words of the Apostle Peter from 1 Peter 5:6-7
For most people, the Christmas season offers one of the brightest and best times of the year. The festive crowds, the bright lights, the sound of carols, the laughter of children, all conspire to lift our hearts and dazzle our minds, filling them with Christmas cheer. But, for some individuals—albeit a rather small sampling of the total population in the United States—Christmas offers an all-too-sharp reminder of loss. I am one such person.
On December 15, 1981, my father passed from this life into the arms of his Savior. After exhausting himself trying to start an errant snow blower, my dad entered his house, complained to my mother about not feeling well, climbed the stairs to his bedroom, laid down on his bed, and died. My mother was so shocked that she didn’t even have the presence of mind to call 9-1-1. Instead, she ran downstairs to the kitchen telephone, the only one in the house, and dialed her best friend. It was her friend that, after quickly ending the call with my mother, dialed 9-1-1.
A few minutes after two o’clock in the afternoon, I received a telephone call at work. When I answered, a member of the fire department, who had responded on the rescue squad, told me my father had died. He then put my mother on the phone. Naturally, she was confused and in shock. I told her I would get on an airplane and arrive at her home as quickly as I could.
I will spare you the long, intervening saga. Suffice it to say that my mother never really recovered from my father’s death. She came to live with my wife and me for the next four years. Then, on Sunday, December 15, 1985, sitting next to me in church, she told me she felt ill. I helped her up and out into the hall. It soon became apparent something very serious was wrong. I drove her to the hospital. In minutes, a cerebral hemorrhage caused her to lapse into a coma from which she never awoke. She passed into the arms of her Savior a few minutes after seven o’clock the next morning, making her date of death four years and one day after my father died.
I have learned a lot of things in the intervening 30 and 26 years, respectively, since my parent’s death. One of those things is that you never really get over the death of those you love. Even now, all these years later, at the oddest of moments, a sudden wave of grief will wash over me. I feel, usually for just a few minutes, an overwhelming sense of loss and sorrow. Oh yes, I know that my dear, dear parents currently experience unspeakable joy in the Presence of God. I know that Jesus welcomed them. I know they have been reunited with all their loved ones who preceded them. I am glad, beyond my ability to express, that every frailty of this life has now given way to new bodies, that Jesus Himself has wiped every tear from their eyes, and that every day in heaven is but a prelude to blissful days that stretch into eternity.
So, while the Christmas season does offer a sense of festivity and excitement, it also offers a sense of remembrance and wistful sorrow. I imagine that just such sentiment motivated Christina Rosetti to pen the words to a most unusual Christmas carol:
In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.
Our God, heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign.
In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.
Enough for Him, Whom cherubim, worship night and day,
Breastful of milk, and a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, Whom angels fall before,
The ox and ass and camel which adore.
Angels and archangels may have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air;
But His mother only, in her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the beloved with a kiss.
What can I give Him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;
Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart.
Rosetti originally penned these words in response to an assignment from the magazine, Scribner’s Monthly.Of course, snow does not normally fall in the Bethlehem hills, south of Jerusalem. But, the initial “bleakness” of the stark imagery in Rosetti’s poem seems undeniable. Add to the sonorous nature of the words the tune, “Cranham,” by Gustav Holst, and you have a perfect setting to illustrate how the gloom of emptiness and loss gives way to the glory of the Incarnation.
So, I speak on behalf of all those who punctuate the joy of Christmas—and the blessedness of God taking on human flesh that He might pay the ultimate penalty for our sin—with a tinge of sorrow at the loss of those we love. May the Giver-of-Every-Good-and-Perfect-Gift grant us the joy of His Presence in this very special time of year.
Will you pray with me?
Thank You, God, for loving us. Thank You for sending Jesus to be our Savior. Thank You for sending us Your Holy Spirit to dwell within us.
We humbly ask You to wipe the tears from our eyes that we may see the Light of Your Presence and celebrate the joy of the Incarnation. Grant us, in Your mercy and grace, a special touch from Your Holy Spirit to buoy our spirits and lighten our hearts. We give all our sorrow to You, knowing that You gladly bear our burdens. We cast all our cares on You.
Precious Father, even as we celebrate the birth of Your Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, we long for Him to return with power and in great glory. Vouchsafe for us the time of His coming.
Please continue to speak to us through Your Word. And, help us to obediently follow the pathway You set out before us. Thank You, dear Father, for hearing our prayer in and through the precious Name of Your Son, Jesus, our Savior and Lord. Amen.
