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Two weeks ago, I found myself in an unexpected yuletide funk.
It was early evening, and I was driving around town, running Advent errands. As I soaked up the sights and sounds of the season, out of nowhere a tremendous sadness washed over me. Pangs of melancholy pierced my heart, and I realized that for all the joy of the season, I had suddenly come up against a profound and inexplicable sense of heartbreak--a longing beyond words.
"What is this?" I wondered aloud. Perhaps it was the moody Advent music on my stereo. Or maybe it was the dark, dusky sky on another too-short winter day. But it was more. It was a sense of loss: a desire to be reunited with those whom I have loved but see no longer. In that moment I thought of my mother. I thought of my grandparents. I thought of old friends and of a childhood now firmly in the past.
It's funny. Isaiah belts with joy that a child is born to us, and our hearts are meant to brim with love for the One whom we will call Wonderful Counselor and Prince of Peace. But what they never tell you about the joy of love is that it always comes with the risk of loss. Falling in love with someone--a lover, a parent, a child, a friend--means accepting the fact that you may one day lose them . . . and a part of yourself right along with them. Maybe this is what old Simeon meant when he told young Mary, "A sword will pierce your own heart, too."
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"May You Find a Light" - The Brilliance: Advent Vol. 1
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But as I continued to drive, I realized something extraordinary. That feeling in the center of my chest--it wasn't actually sadness at all. It was gratitude. Deep, real, raw gratitude for all whom I have loved and who have loved me in return. For memories of Christmases past. For hope in years to come. Who knew that the line between a broken heart and a heart overflowing can be so paper thin?
In a season like this, it's not unusual to long for others. In the end, I think such longing points to the even deeper longing we all share: our longing for God. So tonight we'll do what we've done for centuries. We'll gather together. We'll light our candles. We'll sing our songs. And with hearts brimming with something between deep longing and extraordinary gratitude, we'll whisper as one:
"Come, Lord Jesus."
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