It’s hard to say exactly when it happened, or perhaps if it’s happened to you, at all, but if it has happened, and you find yourself feeling not blissful about Christmas, then raise your hand and let’s start admitting our weird feelings. That feels better, doesn’t it?  

And if you are in the camp that has had its tranquil bubble burst, or you’re looking beyond your comfortable lens, eyeing pain and suffering, or the fleeting condition of this life, then you’re likely noticing there is no red and green plaid bow big enough to tie up this thing called pain. Now we’re exhaling again, aren’t we?

Because for a month or two, at the end of the year, there is something within us that wants so desperately to make this all okay, and as we’re untangling our tenth no-good, rotten string of half-working lights, we’re laughing at the stupidity as tears are streaming down our face because what was or what could have been is no more, and we simply cannot pretend. 

And so, now what?

1. The pants will never fit.

It’s as maddening as wide-leg pants. The size down is too snug. The size up is like wearing a trash bag around each leg. But the models look darling in them. So I exchange the ones I bought for another pair. With kids in tow, I don’t try them on. I take them home, put them on so my kids can gawk at how awkward I look, and I go back to the store the next week to do it all again with a different pair of wide-leg pants. It’s always the same elderly gentleman cashier at the exchange desk. I’m so sorry, Troy. He stares right through me, rings up my new pair of pants that I have yet to try on. I tell him these are the ones. He mechanically nods, as he whispers, right. I get them home. I put them on. I look like I could fit my entire family in one leg. I exchange them again. How long am I going to keep trying on those pants before I admit they just don’t fit my body? 

And how many times are we going to circle the sun before we realize this earth, as we know it, is not our home? It does not fit us. (Though one day it will.) And so, for now—now what? 

We stop the insanity of exchanging the thing for the thing. If I can just fill in my empty with enough substitute, it will all be okay. And maybe, it will for a day, a year, or a season. But maybe this void is a space that makes us look beyond a glib horizon. Maybe the lens we look through—the prior picture-perfect one—is  now cracked, and it’s better that way for now. That it is still cracked is truly the kindness of God…a merciful God, who has come that we might have life. And life to the full. (See John 10:10.)

2. No despising the broken lens. 

Our broken lens will eventually be exchanged—indeed, no lens will be needed; we shall fully see Him. We know that, when he is revealed, we will be like him; for we will see him just as he is. (1 John 3:2.) Knowing this lens is temporary, we can instead ask, Lord, what do I do with this fractured lens? 

As I wander up to my closet (which is off limits to the kids this time of year), I nearly trip over gifts hiding among my shoes. There is a dread, heavy on my chest. These weeks are full of theoretically sweet moments that I fear will only fall short. How do I enjoy the rich gifts of a wonderful family, good food, and fellowship while carrying this angst for Christ’s return? How do I acknowledge that my puzzle won’t snap back into place while not letting the broken puzzle snap me? 

We have to admit it’s unfair that we expected something that could never satisfy to satisfy. When life goes like it should, it’s easy to believe the lie. If I used to think an easy life, amazing family, successes, experiences or comforts were ultimate indications of God’s goodness—oh dear me had God let me believe that lie forever!

This life could never do. It’s misplaced to expect it to. When dread, disappointment, or disenchantment expose our misbeliefs, it hurts beyond words, but it’s a hurt that can lead to healing. As much as I want the hurt to go away, this pain that creeps in and steals my breath is a temperature check on the source of my hope. To fellowship with God, through Christ, is the only thing that will ever do.

3. Ready with an industrial fan.

The last few weeks have been punctuated by this out-of-place feeling. There is so much good, yet there’s a deep dissonance. The world is rollicking; we are yearning. Come, Lord Jesus, come.

When our hot water heater went out the other night and overflowed, it’s like finally!  A precise representation of my internal state. Reality is reflecting my guts right now. Exhale. Preparing myself for some days without hot water, I called our plumber first thing and left a voicemail.

Not only did our plumber’s wife assure us we would be taken care of that day, but she drove back to her house to get an industrial fan and took it to our plumber to bring to us. I started bawling after she told me her plan. God’s care for me had shown up, like it always does, like I tend to forget. 

For reasons far beyond me, and impossible to formulate, I notice God’s mercy far more through my cracked glasses than I do through rosy ones. My lens is broken; my God is kind.

Jesus knows our pain from what He took for us on the cross, but He knows our pain because He is with us right now. We have a double dose of fellowship with Christ in our suffering. First, because Jesus, the sinless God-Man, lived the dissonance of this life. Imagine setting your face toward the cross while watching your peers live tidy days in the sun. Jesus has long known our pain in cosmic proportions. Second, because Jesus knows our specific pain, right this moment, as He lives it with us. The Holy Spirit, my Advocate and Helper, is literally bearing with me as I hurt.

If I am in Christ, I will never, ever, ever not have a partner in my pain. If the compassion of my plumber’s wife broke me, imagine when the voice of Jesus hits our ears. Truly, truly I say to you an hour is coming, and is now here, when the dead will hear the voice of the Son of God, and those who hear will live. (John 5:25.)

Then for now, now what? How do we groan and not grumble? We stop despising the broken lens and instead ask God to help us treasure Christ all the more. Jesus, please. And through our splintered sight, we see how the convergence of joy and pain here illuminate our view of eternity. Only through You, Lord.

So address the Christmas cards. Show up to the party. Lug your grandparents’ thousand-pound hand-me-down Christmas tree up from the basement and light that thing up. And accept the happiness tangled with sorrow because this tension is evidence that this life never would have been enough. I was not created for wide-leg pants. I returned them last night while Troy glared from a few registers over. We were not created to find our bliss here. Thank God when we don’t. 

…The friend of the bridegroom, who stands and hears him, rejoices greatly at the bridegroom’s voice. Therefore this joy of mine is now complete. He must increase, but I must decrease. (John 3:29-30.)

. . .

Lord Jesus, make our joy complete because we hear Your voice and we see You working, both in our and our dear ones’ pain. Your nearness is like no other. Thank You that You came.

Merry Christmas–
Paige