Christmas Hope for the Hurting

Christmas is such a funny time, really. For the span of a month, there are unique experiences that completely hijack schedules, radios, and household decor. This holiday is drawn out over five weeks and is the only holiday to have its own “season.” This particular holiday also seems to cause memories that generate a myriad of emotions that come bubbling back up to the surface from years past. Why does this holiday seem to cement things in our minds so? Is it the way our senses are captivated this time of year – a symphony of smells, sights, and sounds – the Salvation Army bell ringers, the twinkling icicle lights, the fresh evergreen and Christmas cookies?

We reminisce of Christmases gone, and recall things that, for the majority of the year, have slipped into a small corner of our minds, packed away, but not forgotten. Come December, we unpack them, perhaps triggered by a smell or a similar situation, good times and difficult times- things we desperately long to keep from fading and other things we would prefer to forget.

I so clearly recall Christmas Eve candlelight services as a little girl, where I would nervously glance at the door from our seats in the pew at the back of the church every couple of minutes, clenching my fingers together as if I could physically squeeze every last ounce of hope to make my Christmas wish come true. My eyes would shift from the door to my mother’s face, and back to the door. There would be moments I would get distracted by a song or a word from the front of the church, and as I heard the hinges of the door announce another late guest entering the cozy, darkened church, my heart would race and my stomach tighten as I jerked my head around, praying it would be my brothers come to make our family complete in the pew.

I would close my eyes, believing, wishing, praying, desperately hoping. Years of Christmas Eve services played out the same way. Some years, the answers filed in and shuffled next to us in the pew – my little heart barely able to withstand the fullness of those moments. Other Christmases, the hope faded as I saw the adults pass out the candles, which meant the service was drawing to a close. My breath would catch in my chest, and as much as I tried not to, and as much as I already knew what I would see, I would check my mother’s face to confirm the hurt I was sure would be there – tears of a mother that wanted her children beside her; to light the flames of the little white candles of those she held dearest.

Many of you feel the same weight and desperation as my mother did those Christmas Eves many years ago. You might be pleading to God for a prodigal child or a struggling spouse. You might be longing for an answer to prayer for healing or hope. Your heart may be grieving a loss; a wound that reopens this time of year.

Last year, God gave me words to share with you that He knew I, myself, would need this year. As I reread them recently, I was full of gratitude and awe for a God Who knew, a God Who comforts, a God Who is near. The word that God constantly brings to my heart and mind as a sacred echo, especially at Christmastime, is “come.”

“Come to the manger. Stay with me here. This is where you find peace...just come.” 

The study guide from the first day of last year’s Christmas Bible study, explains the Greek word for the word “come,” has a much greater depth than our English translations can portray. The Greek word for come is “erchomai,” which is more a concept than a mere word, and illustrates the beginning, or birth, of something. When you “come,” you leave something or somewhere to go to a new or different place. So when Jesus says in Matthew 11:28-30,

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light,”

He is telling us to leave something, and to come to Him, where He can begin something new in us. Leave behind fear, hopelessness, and despair, and let him begin something new in our lives and in our hearts. It is there we find rest. Not just any rest. A soul rest.

A soul rest. The kind of rest a hurting mother needs. The kind of rest those of us who have been waiting on His promises, those who are waiting for an answered prayer, and those in the “not yet” season, so desperately need. A rest only a gracious, loving Father, our Abba Father, could provide.  He longs for us to come, with even more longing than my mother those Christmas Eves as she held her little, white, plastic candle holder with one hand while she wiped her tears with the other.

Listen to the carols all around you this week leading up to Christmas. So many of them call out to us, reminding us to “come.” This is the time, whether or not you are hurting, to come to a Father Who knows your every need-even the ones that you aren’t yet aware of. Let Him light your flame, give your soul a divine rest, and begin something new in you.