I am incredibly grateful for the community of writers I’ve come to know through the internet.

But there is nothing like sitting face to face. Nothing like talking over cups of coffee while children run through our legs (or beg for another push on the swing). Campbell has been that friend to me, and I am grateful beyond words.

Campbell is also a smart and talented writer, and she’s written the Advent reflection I desperately needed as Christmas Day approaches.

Every year, I am surprised when the world doesn’t seem to grow brighter, lighter as Christmas nears. Every year, at about this point, I wonder what is the point? The news goes from bad to horrific, and, like Campbell, I fear Christmas joy will never be found. Peace is impossible.

But here is hope. Here is the light that shines in darkness. That has not, nor ever will be, overcome.

***

blurry

***

Looking for Christmas

I’m looking hard for Christmas this year.  I feel my broken edges, sharp and pointy, and I’m tired and weary from the world.  I’m needing something holy.  I’m trying to find Jesus, trying hard to see the babe in swaddling clothes, the one who brings light and love and makes things right again.

Maybe Christmas looks like twinkly lights, strung along roof lines and spun around bushes.  Is this holiness – these tiny dots of light, twisted and tied into a brighter picture?  One small LED bulb isn’t much on its own, but step back a bit and I can see the shape of a reindeer, or the letters that spell out “peace.”

My small light isn’t much on its own, either.  Sometimes, even, a bulb or two are missing or out.  Maybe if I string my little light offerings with your little sparks we can step back and see His burst of glory, the grand story spelled out in twinkles.  Peace for each other, one small light at a time.

Maybe Christmas is like this:  – maybe it’s the late night rock concert, where I’m sitting with folks who I know and folks I don’t and it smells like sweat and beer.  It seems about as holy as donkey poop and hay.  The darkness inside the theater is not unlike the winter dark.

The show has built with percussive intensity and it’s nearing the end.  I’ve scooted my way to the edge of my seat.  My body is prickly with emotional electricity, as if I could start a forest fire, standing too close to tinder and kindling.  She stands at the edge of the stage, surrounded by her bandmates, lit up like a Christmas tree, and after one big breath in she lets it all out:  “Rivers and roads” she belts out with emotional intensity, “Rivers and roads, rivers till I reach you.” Boom.  The strength of her voice is punctuated by a sharp drumbeat and with it the lights die out.  The theater is absolutely dark, utterly quiet.  Maybe like Bethlehem?

She breathes deep, maybe we all do, and she sings it again “Rivers and roads, rivers till I reach you.” Boom.  We are in darkness again.

This year has been nothing but tinder and kindling, and I’m in flames.

I think Christmas is like this: the pitch darkness, the creeping loneliness, the cold intensity of a world too big, too hard, too closed in.  And when the light bursts back, it’s with this same message:  till I reach you.  To reach me.  Rivers, roads, fields, trees, stars, stables, donkeys.  It is all the message, and all the means, and it is Jesus here, in this darkness, in this theater, in my heart, reaching.  Reaching.  Boom.  The show lights are back on.

We buried our grandfather, generous patriarch of this wide family, this week.  He lived a glorious life, but there is heartache and sadness as we think of a tomorrow with no Grandpop in it.  Can the babe in swaddling clothes be here, too, graveside with our grieving family, listening to Taps on the bugle behind us?

It’s through this veil of tears that somehow I see that He is here.  He’s reaching us, rivers and roads, to hold hands and wrap His arms of love around me, around you.  Not like my imaginary friend Jenny, who I used to see in the mirrors in the produce section at the grocery store, a fancy image of what I wanted to see. But instead Jesus is God himself, with me.  He became human, cried human tears, laughed human laughs.  Maybe He had heart burn and runny noses.  He got tired and hungry and angry and hurt.  And He loved.  He gave love, He showed love, He is love.

It doesn’t seem to matter that I don’t know where to look for Jesus, or how to find Christmas this year.  What I’m finding is that it can all be holy, because in God becoming human He sanctified it all.  His holiness is everywhere. And through sadness and weariness, He’s reaching me with twinkle lights and rock concerts.

***

Campbell C. Hoffman can be found with her carpenter-husband on a trail in Southeast Pennsylvania, encouraging (read: begging) her three kids to keep hiking. When she is not hiking, she is on another adventure not altogether different: motherhood.   She writes about it on her blog and can be found on Twitter @tumbledweeds.  Campbell’s work has also appeared at Brain, Child Magazine, Hippocampus Magazine, and Mamalode.

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