Cozy families. Classic carols. A fire crackling in the fireplace. Favorite seasonal meals, drinks. Warm oversized sweaters. Soft twinkle lights on the tree. The nostalgia of a favorite Christmas movie. Scents of cinnamon and pine wafting gently.
And the joy of passing it on.
Traditions.
Traditions of comfort. And joy.
… So how does all of this off-the-chart hygge experience vibe with the challenge, the “unprecedentedness”, the veritable dumpster fire of what we know as 2020?
Understandably, I’ve heard people talk about not feeling very “Christmasy” because of how much struggle this year has brought.
Financial difficulties, lack of work, loneliness, illness, sickness and death, a lack of leadership in our country, making hard choices to cancel time with loved ones … it’s easy to understand feeling less than festive.
It’s hard to embrace Christmastime comfort when so many basic comforts have been missing throughout most of 2020.
Most of us can probably call to mind a time the holidays felt sad, strained, numb, blue. Maybe you were grieving and the loss was taking all your energy and focus. Maybe you were struggling with depression or anxiety or obsessive thoughts. Maybe you were in a bad relationship or job that was sucking your soul.
Whatever it was, the magic of the holidays was sorely lacking.
An Advent reading we hear in the Christian tradition time of year comes from Isaiah, and speaks “Comfort, comfort” to the people who have been waiting – essentially serving a term, as they wait – for redemption and relief.
What can I say? That resonates.
And yet, we wait.
In many ways, getting discomfort for Christmas is like getting the worst gift ever:
Maybe we want the trip home to be with loved ones, with family. But we’re not traveling to keep loved ones safe. And we feel so damn isolated.
Maybe we want to show love tangibly and give gifts to our loved ones. But finances are too tight, the bills are piling up, the credit line is shrinking, and it’s just not possible.
Maybe we want that Christmas eve service, with music, hugs, community, singing, candlelight. But church hasn’t met in person in months, and supplemental worship offerings from church are helpful, but leave you hungry and missing what once was.
Maybe we want to hunker down and do the hermit thing because we know so many people who are or have been sick with Covid. But work requires you to go in, risk your health, and put yourself in compromising positions.
Worst. Gift. Ever.
Imagine those horrible gifts with me. They don’t fit. They aren’t your style. They are uninspired, generic. They’re thoughtless. You’ll never use it. Does the giver even know you? You should be able to say thanks and move on, but… ugh. Why were you even given this?
I’m all for being Midwestern nice, but what if we leaned into this frustration, grief, sadness, loneliness, anger, fear, and… embracing Festivus (yes, today!) aired our 2020 grievances?
We might find something of value in the worst ever gift of discomfort. Oddly enough, spending conscious time with the discomfort might even bring some comfort.
It can be hard to embrace, but if we have the capacity to grieve, mourn, lament our 2020 – it’s very likely we still also have the capacity to tap into joy, comfort, laughter and peace.
When we grieve the pain, we might also ultimately see there are blessings in this crazy year: the creativity, the relationships, the things that did bring comfort (even if they weren’t the old standards).
They are two sides of a coin.
I know it sounds cheesy, and you’re welcome to roll your eyes. But I honestly feel like if we take time to be real about the loss and the anger and the hurt — not minimizing, not deflecting, not numbing, not being Midwestern nice – we’ll find a gift in meeting ourselves right where we are.
And we’ll remember our capacity to see good, count blessings, and maybe even encounter joy.
From my heart and my home to yours, merry Christmas.
(But first… festivus!)
alive. awake. uncomfortable. 