There’s no other way to say it: these are long and dark days in America, and it has nothing to do with the orientation of the planet—and everything to do with the trajectory of our nation.
Outside of a very select few (most of whom comprise the wealthiest among us) no one is particularly festive right now, and for good reason. We’d be foolish not to feel the tension we’re sitting in right now, not to see the weariness in people, not to notice the sadness in ourselves.
This year, many of us have felt like we’ve had stuff stolen: peace, rest, dreams, security, national pride, faith, family, healthcare, our voices.
And it feels like Christmas is being stolen too.
I always used to love this time of year; the cracking bustle of the shopping season, and then the way everything would slow down and the world would seem to pause and exhale together. When I was younger it always seemed as though people were being their best selves in these days; a little kinder, a little gentler with one another, a bit more compassionate. Growing up, I recall a seasonal gratitude rising up almost involuntarily as I experienced life and sensed my blessings. I remember a palpable sense of expectancy; an annual reflecting on the year that was concluding and a leaning toward the good things I was hoping would come with the change of the calendar.
These things are really difficult for me to find right now.
These days are not merry and bright.
Many people feel themselves dimming. Maybe you do. I know I do.
In my faith tradition, I always understood Christmas as the celebration of a great light coming into the world; of hope overwhelming the thick darkness, of something beautifully redemptive showing up in the most dire of moments. It was the arrival of unfathomable goodness being born in the night and the cold, amid the smell of straw and mud and animal dung.
Christmas was the presence of peace rising up when peace was most counter-intuitive.
I need a little Christmas—now.
More than any I can recall in my adult life, there is a heavy sense of dread permeating this season—a feeling that we are a poisoned people, living in the toxicity of a bitterness that will not cease and a malevolence that knows no bounds.
If there was ever a time to abandon joy it would be now.
If there was ever a season when despair was justifiable it would be this one.
No one would blame me for surrendering to the blackness.
And yet, I flat-out refuse to consent to it.
I am not going to let the darkness steal the light from me.
I am reclaiming Christmas.
I’m not hiding from the truth of how terrible things are, and I’m not avoiding the scale of all there is to grieve over. I’m just not going to let it have me.
I don’t know what your faith perspective is, but that doesn’t matter.
I don’t know what your emotional condition or your financial situation or your family circumstances are.
I don’t have any real idea about how and where these words find you, or the obstacles you have in your path.
All I know is that these are long and dark days, and more than ever we need defiant people to stay and stand and to split the darkness in ways that only goodness can.
Look around you.
Look carefully.
Strain to see the things and the people who give you hope—even if you have to look past so much that tempts to make you hopeless.
Unearth the beautiful things trapped beneath the rubble of bad news and ugliness even if it takes more energy than you think you have. The beautiful things are worth it.
Friend, I know why you are struggling to hold onto the light within you right now. I am too. But I also know that right now it is more valuable and powerful and necessary than it’s even been.
Do something to remind yourself why you live.
Embrace the people you love.
Use the gifts you have to bring joy.
Be present to this day.
Laugh fully.
Give what you have to give.
Give thanks.
But whatever you do, in days like these, as long and dark as they are: Don’t you lose your light.
