This morning my Facebook memories reminded me of our annual holiday party at Zuma, where my wife and I worked for over 10 years. It's the place where we were introduced to and got to know so many people from the community and town we now call home. The memory was from 5 years ago and two of the Zuma family in those photos have since passed. Both of my grandmothers passed away near Christmas. Grief and sadness ebb and flow amongst the joy and merriment of the season. The echoes of hardship can ring louder than Christmas bells. Hope evades us, and holly jolly fun dances just out of reach. Silence of a silent night is deafening. This year especially, I've had so many tell me they "just can't get in the spirit" or they're "just not feeling Christmassy". It's understandable, considering what we've all been through-what we relive each time we drive past what used to be. When the winds rip and rains fall, anxiety rises. We can acknowledge the bounty of giving, donations and help and still be devastated and grief-stricken by the loss and damage that surrounds us. We're learning how to navigate. Some of us decorated hoping to feel a little better, some chose not to decorate at all because, well, it's simply too hard and requires too much energy. My wife and I did decorate, but less. Usually, we have trees in various rooms with the fattest one we can find in the living room. The tree gets adorned with cherished ornaments collected and given over the years. Quite a few are from our childhoods and most of which have seen better days. But this year there are only two skinny artificial pencil trees flanking a table. (One wouldn't hold all the ornaments.) We decorated them on a morning after it had snowed. I recall waking up to see a few inches and feeling giddy like a child on a snow day. The quiet and calm that a blanket of snow brings is a soothing balm to the noise and rush of the everyday. Carefully unpacking the memories, we decorated to the backdrop of a fresh blanket of snow, while cardinals and finches visited the feeder outside the window. With the ambiance of a fire (even if an electric one), a warm cup of coffee and soft carols playing, I felt as though I was in a real-life Hallmark movie. I felt so truly grateful. Before long though, that joy, warmth and peace burst through as guilt wept from my eyes and I broke. I felt so guilty. How could I be so insensitive? It felt insulting to enjoy this when there are people right down the road and all across these mountains who have had all their cherished keepsakes and decorations washed down the river or buried in mud and rubble. "I should be doing more" I mumble aloud. My wife reminds me that it's ok. Her words of comfort could be a whole other post but suffice it to say that of all I'm grateful for, it's her love, support and grace that I'm most thankful for. It grounds me, and is a reminder of the love and grace that our Creator holds us in. Still, there's so much to do that no matter how much one does, it doesn't feel like enough. It's hard. Life is hard. The day to day is hard. Going through each day feels like the trudging through that mud in the beginning. It's easy to slip, and each step is slow and deliberate even though confusion and uncertainty about what to do next echoes in every thought. One step at a time. One task. One more deep breath. We don't move on from tragedy, but we learn how to carry it with us into the present. Over the last four or five years we've begun another tradition of taking a few moments each day to share Advent readings together. Life, especially around the holidays, is always so hurried but these readings ask us to pause- just be in the moment for a moment. It has become something I not only look forward to but yearn for-the slowing down. Granted, the wanderings of my mind still sometimes prevent me from pausing long enough, but I try. This year, as we read, I found so much resonated with what so many are facing. Words around faith during doubt, hope in despair, patience in waiting and joy in the intangible gifts exchanged with others. Regardless of your religious beliefs, I would be willing to bet that we are all waiting for something, searching for something, hoping for something. Winter solstice has just occurred. Each new day bringing with it a little more sunlight. Before we know it another three months will have passed, and new growth will emerge with spring. In the meantime, really all of the time, we could use a little prayer or good thoughts or good energy, whatever you like to call it. As I read this blessing from our Advent reading it seemed fitting to share it.

From Kate Bowler's 2024 Advent Devotional "The Weary World Rejoices" A Blessing For When We Don’t Know What’s Ahead"

Blessed are you who don’t have all the right answers. You who realize that I don’t know the best response and posture for now, who lean in unafraid to learn and change and be wrong along the way. Blessed are you who are being stretched and pressed and pulled by the uncertainty that surrounds us. You who are deciding to not stay the same because we are not who we were. Things have changed. We have lost things we can’t get back and need to learn new ways to live here now. Blessed are you who have realized that community really does help us see the truth clearer, even if your chin has to be turned gently (or forcefully) toward it. Being fragile in the midst of a world of hammers takes courage. It takes courage to live here, to be wrong. Here to learn something new, to choose humility and kindness and one another over being right. So, here’s to us, dear ones, the people who don’t have it together, but who are done pretending to, it’s better this way. Curious, hopeful, courageous, and becoming."

May you allow yourself to be held in grace, love and compassion this season and the year ahead.