The Dark and Light at Christmas

I rarely go through the checkout line with a real human being behind the register, but three days before Christmas, the self-checkout line was backed up, and I was in a hurry. An employee with poor posture stood at his post, watching customers at the self-checkout slide their purchases across the scanner and bag them. Maybe he was grateful he had nothing to do, but at that moment, I projected that he wasn’t. He looked lonely.

I nodded at him and asked if the line was open. It was, of course, so I unloaded my shopping bag as he rang up my random purchases. “Ready for Christmas?” I asked.

“Ready for it to be over,” he replied. He wasn’t particularly friendly, which was okay. I didn’t expect it during a week that already felt dark with shootings, cruel executive proclamations, and our refugee clients scared and confused. I wasn’t feeling so chipper either.

“Well, we’re almost there,” I replied.

He shrugged and put my items back in my shopping bag. As he handed me the receipt, I skipped the perfunctory “Happy Holidays!” It would have been mildly offensive, so I just said, “Hang in there,” which didn’t sound much better. “Yeah, tryin’,” he said.

What do you do when your only holiday wish is for Christmas to be over and done with? This was me, last year. Delayed grief over the death of my mother-in-law hit me two weeks before Christmas, and I spent the holidays with waves of anxiety followed by dark sadness. This was the first time I had experienced anything like this. Suddenly, the joy of Christmas became intolerable, and my only goal was to make it to December 26. I muddled through and actually enjoyed Christmas Day, surrounded by my kids, husband, and the dogs. But I remember what it felt like, and I could so easily understand the heaviness in the face of the man across the checkout counter.

Our culture is obsessed with shiny perfectionism, displayed nonstop across feeds and ads on the device we hold in our hands. There’s a holiday standard to uphold, which is depicted in our songs, art, and even our memories, which are often distorted to create happy holidays that weren’t always happy. Our Puritan work ethic extends to everything, including Christmas. Consumerism has dogged our efforts to strip it down, despite Advent candles and calls for simplicity in the season.

And yet, it feels like we need the escapism of the perfect Christmas. The songs, pageants, parties, decorations, and yes, the Santa sweaters. I’m all for it, but it’s not like that for everyone. The merriment only makes what is hard even harder. The darkness feels more oppressive when everyone else seems to be in the light.

There is always tension between the joy we want to claim for ourselves, even as we are surrounded by people who are broken and hurting. We talk of the light that comes to us in a dark world, and it is our human nature to grab it all for ourselves. Let others find their own light, and good luck in December. Should I tamp down my joy because a sister or brother beside me is sad? Maybe the best we can do is to be aware.

At a stoplight recently, I was scrolling through all the bright, happy photos as a woman and her child walked along the sidewalk across from me toward the homeless shelter. I can’t fix that, and I don’t want to pretend a friendly wave will make all the difference for her, or me, but I can hold space in my heart for the hurting, lonely, and fearful. I can remember my own dark days instead of hiding from them and pretending they never existed. Each of us is that sad man in Walmart. Or the homeless woman and child. Or the immigrant hiding in the shadows, afraid.

Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?

And when did we see you sad and lonely at Christmas and wish you would brighten up? When did we see you wishing it was over, as we so easily forgot our own dark moments?

I don’t want to even say it, but this is the point of Christmas. In a dark world, we remember our own darkness and the beautiful moments when the light has come through the cracks. We remember that love came to a dark world in the most unexpected way, so we cease our merriment long enough to embrace the darkness on behalf of others. They don’t need encouragement to be happy; they just need to know we understand. And we do.

For those who want it all to be over: May you see some glimpses of light in these days, but may you also know we stand with you in the darkness.

For those who only see light this year: May you be unafraid to walk into the darkness with the hurting and tell them you have been there.