I Wish You a Paradoxical Christmas

Because we're all adults here

The holidays can be hard and sad and calm and bright, and usually a mixture of all of the above. I don’t know what the spaces of your home look like today, perhaps there is estrangement or a first Christmas post divorce, perhaps last night was the first time you didn’t have a church to call home for a candlelight service, perhaps you are down with the flu or RSV or Covid as a number of our friends and neighbors are. Maybe someone near to you died this year or maybe a friendship died and you still don’t know how to grieve that all the way through.

While everything in me wants to wish you a holly, jolly Christmas, if the news reports and research data is right, we are all more lonely than ever, more fractured than ever, more disillusioned than ever, and the scariest thing is that most of us don’t know how to get our joy back.

Last night we watched Greta Gerwig’s Little Women and I was struck (again) by the writing of this version. Gerwig brilliantly pairs the hopes and dreams and delights and warmth of their childhood with the backdrop of their adulthood—crushed dreams, death, a world that wasn’t as ready to welcome them as they imagined, financial hardship, unplanned pivots, and more. You could follow each March girl’s thread from Meg’s obsession with clothing and dresses and appearance through to her selling the yardage to Sally so John could have a coat, Amy’s lofty aspirations of beauty and fame and wealth and the world through to her marrying the boy next door and coming home (May, the Alcott sister Amy was based on, died not long after her marriage), Beth, Jo, Marmie, and more. My heart even softened a great deal toward Aunt March this time around, understanding a bit more where those prickly edges had come from and her concerns around marrying well being rooted in care and her own (perhaps) grief of how her life turned out.

Our home today is warm and secure. We have a pretty little tree full of ornaments we’ve gathered over the last nine Christmases together. While Nate made eggs and bacon this morning, I baked cardamom-orange-cinnamon-rolls, and then we opened our four gifts for one another. It is quiet here and calm (as much as it can be with an eight week old puppy here).

But the other side of that is at 11pm Rilke (pronounced Ril-ka, like the poet) was up screeching, and at 1am, Harper was up vomiting, and again at 4am, and again at 6am. We live far from our close family members and, for reasons I’ve shared at other times this year, our relationship with our geographically close family members is estranged. My mom discovered termites in her living room floor today in Florida and has spent all day ripping up wood floors. Our neighbors have Covid. One whole branch of our family has Covid and multiple others have the flu and RSV. You already know The Kids Are Not Okay, so I’m not going to say much more.

Christmas is magical when you’re a kid because you live in a world of possibility, but when you’re a grown-up, you live in a world of absolutes. You know that all your dreams won’t come true and you know how much all those gifts cost and what you’ll have to cut to afford them and you know the calories of every single thing you put in your mouth and you know that eating good food around a table doesn’t heal fractured relationships and you know that behind every single Christmas card of smiling families, there is heartbreak just below the surface.

Because I believe in Jesus, I know there’s still hope amidst all of it. But also, because I believe in Jesus, I know we don’t always feel the hope. And I think that’s okay. If today feels flat for you, I just want you to know you’re not alone.

So here’s what I wish for your day today and the twelve days to come: that you would believe that grief and joy hold hands, that justice and mercy kiss, that peace and chaos are not always at odds, and that we only need goodwill to men because there is so much bad will at work in the world. I wish for your Christmas that it is paradoxical because that is what life is in every way.

This photo was our tenth attempt and finally we just called it.

I also just wanted an excuse to land in your inbox this week and tell you all how thankful I am for all of you. I really mean that. Your presence, your continual support through comments, subscriptions, the mail you send me, and the myriad of ways you show me that you’re here for the real me and whatever is below the surface—it all gives me so much hope for us, friends. It shows me that despite the news reports and research data, we really do still want to grope in the dark to find a hand to hold. And I am grateful you’ve found mine. Thank you for all you’ve done and been in 2023 for me and for my family. Truly.

At peace and in place,

Lore