Nearly one month into my transition from Ohio to Florida and I feel less “at home” than I had hoped, though I’m not sure what I actually hoped. It’s been such a strangely hard couple of years and in some ways I find myself not knowing what hopes and expectations look or feel like anymore. But maybe that’s how I know that my hope is growing less reliant on the things of this world. Less about people, or places, or things.
One of the things I’ve been most impacted by in 2020 has been a study of the gospels. I started reading through the gospels each month back in March. I don’t always keep up with the schedule I’m following, but I’ve managed to gain significant familiarity with each book. In my readings, I’ve noticed that Jesus was consistently reminding people of his presence when they felt alone, confused, or sad. He calmed the storm, addressing the disciples’ fears. He wept when Lazarus died, lamenting with the family and friends and offering empathy and comfort. He spoke tenderly and patiently with the woman at the well, modeling what it means to take the time to get to know someone and to bestow dignity and honor on them simply for being an image bearer of God. The word compassion is used dozens of times throughout the New Testament in connection with Jesus’ interactions with people.
Maybe this Thanksgiving, as we stand at the threshold of what is likely the most unique holiday season we’ve experienced, you’re feeling heartsick. Perhaps you sense the weight of sadness at not being able to join with your nearest and dearest around the table and tree this year. Maybe you feel the crushing disappointment and grief of not having a nearest and dearest.
Many of you are heartsick over matters far more complex than the logistics of holiday planning amidst a pandemic. You’ve lost jobs this year, buried loved ones. Experienced the sting of relational brokenness or the pain of betrayal. You answered the phone to hear bad news. Quietly went about your day managing children and Zoom classes and meal planning, while inwardly fighting the urge to crumble. You made life altering decisions out of necessity rather than excitement.
It’s ok if you don’t feel very thankful today. This holiday doesn’t come with a mandate to make a list of all the things you’re thankful for this year. The beauty of true gratitude for those in Christ is that it is not dependent on the circumstances surrounding us. Our thankfulness multiplies as we reflect on the Giver himself. Gratitude deepens when we lament what we’ve lost, because we find greater unity with the One who holds our grief.
I believe one of the greatest gifts God wants to give us this season is his presence in the midst of our suffering and sorrow. Lamenting is an invitation from God when we feel misunderstood by everyone else. The pandemic of 2020 has left many feeling isolated not only physically, but relationally. When everyone everywhere is experiencing much of the same hardships it’s hard not to think, “I guess I’m on my own to figure things out.” Hospitality and friendship seem elusive and awkward. We don’t reach out because we don’t want to be a burden to those already loaded down with burdens a plenty.
As we head into the Christmas season, might I encourage you to find a new form of gratitude as you lament? A gratitude that fights against the aloneness of whatever you’ve lost this year. Diane Langberg has said, “We follow a God who listens to us and weeps with us. That is evident in the life of Jesus. The Incarnation is perhaps the greatest expression ever seen of empathetic listening.” Friend, he is listening to you today. And that is something for which we can be grateful.
This is beautiful. Wishing you all the best and that the best is yet to come.